


Turn of the Tides

by bigbidumbass



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, BAMF Luke Skywalker, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flirting, M/M, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbidumbass/pseuds/bigbidumbass
Summary: “What’s your name?”“What?” Din asked, taken off guard by the question. His eyes were still fixed on the thief’s blade, waiting for a movement that never came.“Don’t you think we should know each other’s names before we start slashing at each other?” came the man’s response. “I’m Luke. Luke Skywalker.”In which Luke is a glorified Robin Hood pirate, and Din is the Captain of the Guard dealing with his morals.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 77
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has some moderate violence in it- there are mentions of death, hangings, torture. All of them are not very explicit, but I wanted to give a warning just in case!

Change came with the smell of the sea. That was as much as Bill knew. For too long, that smell had evaded him. Too long, he’d been forced into a daily routine, hardening, opinions forced into silence. His life had become the endless nights of guarding; the hours melding together to become years of life floating away; people seeming to suffer more day by day. 

He had no one to trust. He’d thought there was loyalty in him, perhaps, but it was not to the king. That much became clear to him as he spoke to the boy—eager, reckless, persuasive. Bill had learned to catch trouble, despite how charming the boy’s words were. But when the breeze came, Bill smelled the sea on him. Salt and wind, tanned skin; Bill knew a sailor when he was in front of one. He’d been one himself, for far too many years. 

Yes, a sailor—a pirate. Bill pieced it together quickly. This was the boy they were looking for. But he felt the exhaustion of servitude on him, years and years of it, and he caved. He knew what the boy wanted, and he measured the cost of it.

“I know what you’re doing,” Bill told him, and the boy blinked and halted in the middle of the speech he’d been giving him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, the lie flowing easily through his mouth.

“Yes, you do,” Bill told him. “Go in, if that’s what you’re doing. I’m not going to stop you.”

Hesitation. Bill felt it in the air before the boy reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Go,” the boy instructed, “They’ll kill you if they find out you helped me.”

Bill shook his head. “I’ve run all my life,” he answered, “I’m tired of running.”

He could see the guilt on the boy’s face, but it needn’t be there. This day would have come sooner or later. Bill was much too lawless to have ever died under the service of the king. 

But there was an intensity to the way the boy looked at him, the way he gripped Bill’s arm. “My name is Luke,” he told Bill, “And whatever they told you about me, it’s a lie.”

“I know,” Bill replied, “It’s always a lie.” 

Luke gave Bill a short nod, then went through the door. Then came the noise of a commotion, loud and rough, the sharp sound of swords and yelling. Soldiers came, running past him, and Bill could only hope that the boy would make it out alright. He wouldn’t be there to see it. 

“Why didn’t you stop him?” came the sound of a voice, and Bill thought he might have recognized it, but he kept his gaze fixed out toward the sea, toward the salt and the wind. 

“I have no loyalty for your king,” he said. “I hope the boy takes it all.”

The first hit impacted the right side of his cheek. It burned, and from the feeling of wet it left on him, it had drawn blood. He turned and spat at the guard’s feet, ready for the second blow. 

“They’ll have your life for this,” the guard told him, but Bill managed to meet his eyes.

“Another life lost in the name of your _king_ ,” he spat, the years of hatred finally beginning to spill from him. 

It was quick, the way they sentenced him. The way they marched him up to hang, the way the rope came down to wrap around his neck, pulled tight enough to be uncomfortable. Quick, the way they read his name and his crime to the people. As the barrel was kicked from under him, Bill thought he smelled the sea.

* * *

_Din was shaking. He was aware of that, the wind biting through his armor, but he wasn’t trembling from the cold. His eyes were on that rope, on the way the crowd talked softly behind him. He’d done the right thing, that was what he kept telling himself, but as he watched he wasn’t so sure._

_“Din!” Mayfeld screamed, “Din, help me! Please, God, help me!”_

_But Din only watched, frozen in place. He said nothing, even as they draped the noose around Mayfeld’s neck and pulled it tight. Mayfeld wasn’t innocent, Din reminded himself, he’d been caught red-handed. A traitor. Turning him in had been the right thing to do._

_“Din,” Mayfeld sobbed, “Please. Help me.” Then the barrel was kicked from underneath him, and Din turned away. As he kept his eyes fixed on the stone at his feet, he swore he could still hear Mayfeld’s voice behind him, calling for Din to save him._

It was a knock on the door that woke Din, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. He was no stranger to being woken in the night, whether it be from nightmares or from news of a new crime committed. Truth be told, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, or managed to rest without feeling like he’d only just closed his eyes. 

Drowsy, he got up and dressed, strapping on layers of armor as he tried to shake away the memory of the dream. It wasn’t uncommon to have to deal with various crimes, to catch a thief who thought he was skilled enough to take from the king and get away. 

But tonight was different, it turned out. Different offense, different methods. A crime, yes, but it was not about the jewels. That became clear as Cobb briefed him on what had happened. A crime not motivated by desperation—that was the most dangerous thing of all. 

When Din arrived at the scene, there was quite a sight to be taken in. He let himself process some of it, then went over to where the group of guards were standing, all conversing with one another.

“You’re sure it was the same person as last time?” Din asked Bo-Katan, who pursed her lips at his presence.

“It was him. That pirate,” she told him. “A guard on the South Wing let him in. Don’t know how he managed that.”

“Let me talk to him,” Din said, but Bo-Katan shook her head. 

“You’re ten minutes too late. They hung him for treason.”

“And the others? The rest that saw him here?”

Bo-Katan didn’t move, eyes still on the message they’d left on the wall. “Gone too. The king wasn’t pleased with their performances.”

Din huffed, drawing a hand over his face. “Tell me how I'm supposed to catch him when everyone who’s talked to him is dead,” he griped. 

“Maybe you’d like to take your issues up with the king?” Bo-Katan asked, a smile playing on her lips. 

“I didn’t—I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Din said quickly. 

“I hope so, Captain,” Bo-Katan replied, “Someone so new into your position is hardly ready for this kind of work.”

“ _I’ll find him,”_ Din replied, distaste rancid in his mouth. “I’ve never failed before.”

“First time for everything, isn’t there?” 

This wasn’t helping. “Did anyone see any clues? Which direction his ship went?” 

“No,” Bo-Katan answered. “Everything you have lies in here. Best get started—I’m sure His Majesty will not be patient today.”

There was more paint than anything else. A deep crimson, too dark and thick for blood, but it still drew a visceral reaction from the naked eye. By accident or on purpose, Din wasn’t sure, but there was a pool of it in the courtyard.

A message was written on the wall, next to the place where the jewels had once called home. It was strange to see it so bare now. Din gazed at the words.

_Our king is a selfish one, my love, what a shame, what a shame. The innocent fell and his wife’s in a cell, yet still people here praise his name._

Din recognized it. The lyrics of a song. It was considered treason to sing it anywhere in the kingdom. Bold, but not quite a clue.

He returned to the paint, realizing he’d stepped in it somewhere. It was nearly impossible not to, with how much of it was on the floor. 

Drawing a finger into it, he spread it beneath his fingers and suddenly realization dawned on him. Pigment this rich was rare, incredibly. Perhaps he’d be able to trace it. He reached into his pocket for a vial and then dipped it into the paint, getting a sample of it the best he could before cleaning off the outside of it with a handkerchief and tucking it away. Rising from his squat, he left the room without so much as a goodbye to Bo-Katan, heading straight out of the palace to the stables. 

It didn’t take long to saddle Crest, but Din was tempted to ride bareback—every second he wasn’t chasing down the pirate was a precious loss of time. But he got it done properly and lifted himself on, pulling on the reins to start the ride. The wind was in his hair, and he couldn’t quite get the thief’s message out of his head. Political crimes were his least favorite to deal with—someone who needed money was much easier, less complicated. This kind of a thing had a motive, and if word spread from the castle then there was the possibility of a revolution. That was the thief’s idea of course, but Din really wished people wouldn’t go to all this trouble.

When he arrived, Din tied Crest up outside and knocked. He knew the face he’d see would be angry with how late it was, but he’d need help if he was to find who had done this. Sure enough, when Boba Fett opened the door, he looked as if he might close it again.

“Din Djarin,” he said. “It’s too early. See me tomorrow, when it’s a reasonable hour.”

“Wait,” Din said, grabbing the door before it closed. “I don’t have time. And you owe me a favor, remember?”

There was a moment where Din thought Boba might close the door anyway, but he sighed and opened it, sitting down at a table and nodding for Din to sit across from him. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Can you tell me where pigment like this comes from?” Din asked, reaching into his pocket and grabbing the vial. Boba took it from him, expression suddenly curious. 

“Where did you get this?” he asked, raising it up to the lantern in front of him.

“Our pirate friend took the king’s jewels tonight,” Din informed him. “And he left a message using this. Pigment like that doesn’t come up very often.”

“You’re right about that,” Boba confirmed. Sighing, he set it down on the table in front of him and folded his hands together. “They might have gotten it from a market near Kessel, but it’s more likely they got it from Mos Eisley. That’s a pretty typical spot for smugglers, pirates, all the like…But they’d never give anyone up. You’d have to go looking for the thief yourself, and you won’t get any help.”

“Great,” Din said, “All the people who could tell me about him are dead.”

“Not quite,” Boba said slowly. “I may not have seen this particular crime but I did see the last one. You’re looking for a young man with blond hair, blue eyes. A few inches shorter than yourself. Last I saw, he was with a man named Han Solo.”

Din stared at him for a moment. “You never told me that you saw him,” he said, and Boba gave a shrug. 

“You didn’t ask,” he said simply. “I’d head out if I were you. The longer he’s gone, the harder it’ll be to catch him. He’s clever.”

Din stood, sliding a pouch of coins over to Boba. “Thanks for the help,” he said, heading toward the door.

“Din,” Boba called, and Din halted, turning over to look at him. 

“Are you going to kill him?” Boba asked, an unreadable expression on his face.

“My instructions are to return him to the palace,” Din replied. “But I’m sure the king will want him dead. Publicly, most likely. And not quick, either”

“A shame,” Boba said, “He’s got quite some spirit.”

“He should put it into something that wouldn’t get him killed,” Din replied. “I’ll see you around, Fett.”

Boba gave him an acknowledging nod, and Din swore he felt the man’s eyes on the back of his head. Getting back on Crest, he rode off toward the docks, surprised to see Bo-Katan and her crew all waiting there for him to arrive.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, not bothering to hide his dislike for her turning up here.

“I knew you would have to follow him somewhere,” Bo-Katan replied, “I decided to wait for you to leave. It will be good for you to have some instruction on this.”

As much as Din hated her, he knew very well that he couldn’t deny her this. She still had authority over his rank, even if she wasn’t Captain of the Guard.

“Fine,” he said, “But you’re not getting in my way.”

Bo-Katan only laughed, getting on the ship before he could. Din stalked behind her, shaking his head. This was ridiculous.

“Where to?” Bo-Katan asked, and Din sighed. He’d been looking forward to traveling this mission alone. Now that she was here, that was impossible.

“Mos Eisley,” he revealed. “We’re tracking a pigment used in the paint.”

“Paint?” Bo-Katan asked, her tone incredulous. “This is what you’re going on?”

Din only leaned against the deck, giving her a look.

“Very well,” Bo-Katan said, “I’ll be happy to see you fail.”

Din ignored her, heading down to the berths to get some sleep. He’d need it. First, he wrote down a list of things he knew about the thief. _Political motives, can work alone or with friends, uses the hatred of the people for the king to benefit him._

Din paused for a minute, then scrawled down something else. _Donates what he steals to the people._ It was unfortunate, because that of course meant that everyone liked him. 

_“He’s got quite some spirit,”_ Boba had said. Din was beginning to wonder just how well Boba knew the thief, but it was a question that would forever go unanswered. Frankly, Din was surprised that Boba had even told him what the pirate looked like. Either way, it was helpful. 

Han Solo. Din had heard that name before, but he couldn’t quite remember where. Perhaps he was a common criminal, working with the thief for notoriety. It would certainly work, with how much talk of the pirate had begun to spread.

Boba hadn’t told him the thief’s name. That was of no matter—Din would find it out eventually. Still, he had a strange feeling about it. Was Boba sending him into this because he knew he’d fail? Did the man see Din as so little of a threat?

These questions went unanswered too, though Din convinced himself that he was thinking too much. Laying down in the berth, he ignored the discomfort of the bed and closed his eyes.

_“Din, help me!”_

When Din woke, the sun had made its course through the sky, hot and heavy against the wood. Din sat up, reaching for his journal again. They must be close now. Sitting up, he rose to his feet and stretched, trying to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose. Ships always stunk—whether it was the rot of fish or the reek of the sailors. When the sun was out in its full blazes, it got even worse, seeming to increase the odor by tenfold.

Rising to the deck, he looked out at the sea and saw a city in the distance. It smelled better out here, the wind rustling in his hair and supplying the scent of salt. 

Bo-Katan was already awake, along with Koska and some of the other crew from the palace.

“How much longer do we have?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour,” she said. “I trust you rested well.”

“Fine,” Din answered, knowing she really didn't care how he’d slept. He headed to the stern of the ship, looking out behind them at the stretch of sea and waves they’d just gone through. Perhaps sailing wasn’t so bad, though Koska didn’t seem to be very thrilled—the contents of last night’s dinner were coming up as she leaned over the side of the deck. 

Din was grateful that his body was at least able to handle sea travel better than that. As if he hadn’t already done it ten times, he repeated the details he knew back to himself, willing himself to have them embedded in his mind. Mos Eisley. Han Solo. Blond hair, blue eyes. Thief. Pigment.

Eventually, the town came closer and Din rose to watch it grow in size until they had docked at the port. Din was off the boat before anyone else, getting directions down to Mos Eisley.

It was dry here, scalding. People here regarded his armor with distaste, turning away. It took him several tries before someone spoke to him, a young woman who looked terrified as he approached her.

“Can you tell me how to get to Mos Eisley?” he asked, feeling a bit guilty at the way she looked at him. 

It’s through the gates,” she told him, her voice soft and hoarse. “Through the gates, please—don’t ask me anything else.”

Then she had gone, vanishing out of view before Din could say any more. He stared at where she’d been, wondering if the people here truly disliked members of the guard that much. 

The rest were the same. Through the gates he went, and it was there that he realized just how much he was in for. It was impossible to find someone here based on a physical description. There were simply too many people, too much business and conversation going on. People weaved their way around Din as he stopped, looking at the businesses. 

“Excuse me,” he said to someone near him, “Is there anywhere I can get some paint?”

The person’s eyes pointedly drifted to his armor, to the symbol of the guard, to the signet that marked him as Captain. They gazed at him for a long moment, then spat at his feet and walked away.

“You’d do better if you took that off, you know,” came a voice behind him.

Din turned to see—a ragged old man in a long black robe. His face was shielded by shadow and fabric, and Din fought the urge to step back. He didn’t trust anyone here.

“It’s my duty to wear it,” Din told him, and the old man laughed.

“Ah yes,” he said, “Your _duty._ And I suppose the king would be heartbroken if you got killed for donning it.”

Din said nothing. He turned away and started forward.

“You’re looking for Savi’s place,” the old man called after him. “But you won’t find many answers.”

Din continued on, this time searching for Savi’s. It took him a great deal of time to find it—no one would answer his questions or give him any directions. People avoided him like the plague, stepping away or yelling things at him.

 _God, if the thief was here, they’d warn him immediately,_ Din realized. But he had no other leads and no other options. He continued on his search.

When he entered, it was clear that this was the right place. All around him were pigments—red, green, blue, purple. Paints of different colors, dyed fabrics, shimmering jewels. The owner, Savi, Din supposed, gave him a glare that conveyed to Din well enough that he was not welcome.

He stepped up to the counter nonetheless. “Listen. I know you don’t like me,” he said, “So let’s make a deal. Any information you can give me on a certain pigment, I’ll pay you greatly for.”

“E chu ta,” Savi spat, turning away. “I don’t make deals with your kind.”

Din stared at him. “Anything you can tell me-” he started, but Savi whirled around on him.

“You’re lucky to be alive now,” Savi said, “I suggest you get out before I change that.”

Din didn’t think that dueling and possibly killing someone in their own shop would do him any favors with the locals, so he left. Surely there would be _someone_ who would talk to him. 

He went back into town, asking for leads, offering money, but people stared at him with such distaste that it left Din stunned. He hadn’t realized how much distaste there was for the king out here. It was beginning to make sense how much help the thief had gotten, the amount of support that had followed him even from the beginning of his movement.

Sighing, Din made his way to the corner of the town. Han Solo—that was something he could go off of, but he doubted anyone would tell him about Han if people wouldn’t even tell him about paint. 

And Bo-Katan… surely she’d mock him for this. Call him a failure for his misgivings. No, he wouldn’t let her win. There _had_ to be a way. Pulling out his journal, he reviewed all his knowledge of the past crimes the thief had committed, wishing he had been there to pick up any clues. Starting with this specific crime, it left questions unanswered, clues scattered that would be impossible to find by now.

“You’re very obvious, you know,” came a voice, and Din looked up. A man was leaning against the wall, grinning at him. He had a very pretty face. Blond hair and blue eyes, Din noted, and he was on his feet before he could think anything else. _It couldn’t be._

“All that armor,” the man said, taking in the metal of Din’s breastplate, “It’s very distracting. Makes you hard to blend in.”

“I swore I’d wear it,” Din said, “Swore it to the king himself.”

“You’re very loyal,” the man noted, “But not very smart.”

Din’s hand clenched into a fist. “What do you want?” he asked, hand drifting toward his sword.

“Well, you’re looking for me, aren’t you?” the man asked. “I thought I’d give you a hand, since you’re doing so poorly.”

Din drew his sword then, holding it at the ready.

The thief only laughed, taking out his own blade and holding it in his hand lazily, not bothering to even take a proper stance. “Then again,” he said, “You _did_ track the pigment from the paint here, so you can’t be a complete idiot.”

“I assume this is your surrender,” Din said. “In that case, I accept.”

“You’re funny,” the pirate replied, looking surprised. “Most guards have a stick up their ass.”

“Guards you killed,” Din said, taking a step closer. The man had taken a proper grip on his sword now, attention fixed on Din’s movements.

“They would have killed me all the same,” he responded, “Everyone in your guard turns a nose to those who die on the streets every day because of your so-called king. You think he cares about you?”

“It’s my duty,” Din said, “I’m no traitor.” 

The man only shook his head. “Are you going to arrest me?” he asked, taking a step in. They were close now, close enough to strike, should either of them choose. Din chose—he slashed forward, the motion easily blocked by the man.

“That answers that,” the pirate said with a grin. “What’s your name?”

“What?” Din asked, taken off guard by the question. His eyes were still fixed on the thief’s blade, waiting for a movement that never came.

“Don’t you think we should know each other’s names before we start slashing at each other?” came the man’s response. “I’m Luke. Luke Skywalker.”

Luke. Finally, Din had a name to the face.

“Din Djarin,” he replied warily, throwing another blow, immediately being blocked.

“Well, Din Djarin,” Luke replied, “I’m sorry I have to fight you.”

Then came Luke’s first strike, graceful and deadly, difficult to block even though Din had been expecting it. Stepping back, he blocked the second strike that Luke threw at him, and it was suddenly clear how all those guards had fallen to Luke’s hand. 

More strikes, slashing forward, and Din was forced to back up, toward the wall behind him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be cornered. Throwing a blow forward, he attempted to gain ground, but it was to no avail. It was as if Luke had been born with a sword in his hand, the way he easily parried and deflected Din’s movements. 

“You’re good,” Luke said, almost casually. “It’s a shame you’re on the king’s side.”

Din, still trying not to get cornered, thrust his blade forward again and again and again, _still_ managing to barely get away from that wall.

“You always talk this much during fights?” Din asked, and he saw Luke grin as he slashed toward him again.

“Well, people don’t usually last this long,” Luke told him, “No wonder they made you Captain.”

Din snarled and lunged forward, mind lost in the clashing of their steel. Any more and Din thought he might see sparks.

“You’re very smug,” he said, sweat beginning to drip down his neck. They’d both stopped, circling around each other, waiting.

“You think so?” Luke asked, tilting his head. “What else do you think of me?”

Din looked at him, took in the tanned skin, the taunting tilt of the lips. “That you’re far too pretty for your own good,” he said, backing away from the wall.

Luke slashed forward, a movement which Din countered. “So you think I’m pretty?” he asked. 

Din stumbled a moment—really, the slightest of seconds, but Luke used his weakness to knock Din’s sword out of his hand and swept his foot under Din’s legs, knocking him off balance.

Din hit the ground hard, gasping for air, aware of the blade pointed at his neck. It was cold, brushing against the skin as Din inhaled.

“Kill me quick,” he requested through the scraping of his lungs, knowing where his fate lay. In his head, he saw the bodies of the guards in that courtyard. 

“Kill you?” Luke asked. “I don’t kill people who are unarmed. Unlike your king, I have morals.” Leaning down, he took the pouch of gold from Din’s belt, then stood. “But I will be taking this,” he grinned. “Finders keepers, after all.”

Then he was gone. 

It was a bit before Din could get to his feet, ribs still sore from the impact. Luke hadn’t killed him—Din had been completely at his mercy, completely unarmed, no one around. How could he explain that?

Perhaps he had some morals after all, just like he’d said. And he was extremely smart, skilled in a way that Din couldn’t even explain. Of course, Din couldn’t let him get away—as soon as he was able, he was stumbling through the streets, hand clutched to his tender ribs, looking for a flash of golden hair.

Every time he thought someone might be Luke, it turned out to be a stranger, who would back away from him as if they’d been burned. Din barely had it in him to pay attention to that, not while he might still be able to find Luke.

But the man was nowhere to be found. He had the advantage here, knowing the city, knowing the people, knowing that he was coming. Din was completely, hopelessly unmatched. Then guilt, hot and sick—it coursed through his veins, seemed to consume him. Guilt and exhaustion and frustration; they all overtook him until he’d finally taken on too much and slumped down against a wall, leaning his head back and gazing up at the sky.

Guilt that Luke had spared him, and not two minutes later Din had gone searching to capture him, to put him through a series of events that would surely lead to his death. The king had never been one for mercy, especially not against criminals. Luke’s death would be slow, agonizing, shown in the public. A specially designed torture for someone like him, someone who dared to defy the king so openly. 

Din knew that. He was no fool, no pretender. If he managed to catch Luke like he’d wanted to, the man’s blood would be on Din’s hands. Din would be responsible for it. Just like he’d been responsible for what happened to Mayfeld. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the support on the first chapter--you all have no idea how much it means to me. I cherish each and every comment that was left on it, it really inspired me to work more on it now and I'm excited to be creating a story I hope you all will enjoy. I'm planning to try and post twice a week, and I'll keep you all updated if I'm not able to do that. Again, thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

“You let him get away?”

Bo-Katan’s voice was incredulous, anger biting at the edge of her words. “I knew you weren’t ready for this,” she remarked, shaking her head. 

“Even you wouldn’t have done any better against him, trust me,” Din told her, rolling a bandage around his arm. He hadn’t even realized he’d been cut in his fight with Luke, not until he’d gotten back on the boat and saw the white of his sleeve painted with crimson.

Bo-Katan was silent, staring out at the crests of the waves in the distance. 

“If he’s smart, he’ll have left by now,” Din said, “And he’s very smart. Did you see any boats heading out?”

“Too many to track,” Bo-Katan informed him, “And none distinguishable enough to find or follow, even if we knew which one he was on. Which we don’t, thanks to you.”

The blood in Don’s veins boiled with anger, coursing through him until he knew nothing else. It was only by the strength of his will that he managed to keep his face composed, whatever emotions he might feel.

“Alright,” he said evenly, his jaw tight, “And what do you suggest we do now?”

Bo-Katan gave him a tight-lipped smile, exhaling through her nose. “Taking my suggestions now, are we?” she asked. “If you had done that all along, we’d have captured him by now.”

“As you’ve said,” Din replied, “But—”

“Surely you don’t expect me to help you after you’ve ignored my advice time and time again, and lost our one lead thanks to your personal failure. _You_ find him.” There was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips as she turned toward him. “I, for one, will be happy to see whatever punishment the king chooses for this… error. I look forward to you groveling at his feet.”

“I’m sure it’s easy to think you’d win when you haven’t met him,” Din snapped, his frustration finally spilling out of him, “but all of your men who have come across him are dead, save for me. He’s clever and resourceful, and a better swordsman than any of us, you included. And if you try to find him, you’ll fail like I did. We all know you want the throne, but you can’t become Queen if you’re dead.”

His words drew the reaction he’d wanted, though she tried to hide it—the way her eyes widened, the way she abruptly turned away from him.

“Watch your tone, Captain,” she said, voice so soft against the wind that Din barely heard her. “You are not as secure in your position as you think.”

The silence after she spoke was heavy, pressing on Din’s shoulders as if it were some heavenly force from above. Blank faces stared at him from all sides, hostile expressions burned into their eyes. Din suddenly had the terrible image of them gripping his arms and tossing him overboard. For a moment, he thought they actually might, but Bo-Katan waved them away, and Din’s fear faded as the crowd dissipated. 

The tension still lay thick all around him, and he turned his gaze back to Bo-Katan, a fire scorching in her stare. 

“You are bold, _Din Djarin,”_ she spat, “But you are not invincible. You’ll see that soon enough.”

Din could only watch her wordlessly, what he’d said slowly catching up with him. Perhaps it hadn’t been the smartest idea to tell her off, but he couldn’t take it back now. Biting down on his cheek, he headed toward the stern, staring out at the waves behind him. 

* * *

The king was busy when they arrived, which Din was thankful for. He’d only met him twice, once when he’d sworn his oath, and the next when he’d been made Captain. The royal’s expression was always cold as stone, distaste emanating from his marble stare. 

The king being occupied left Din to himself to think, consider where Luke might have gone. In his head, he debated returning to the courtyard where he’d stolen jewels, but surely any evidence that had come from there had been wiped by now. 

If Luke was clever, he’d be on the other side of the world by now. And of course, Luke was clearly clever. But he was also impulsive, reckless—how close he’d gotten to the king just to leave a message, how he’d sought Din out just to mock him—that made it clear. And if Luke’s last message had been big, the next one would be bigger. They were always bigger, bolder, inching closer and closer to the line of being caught.

 _He’s got quite some spirit,_ Din heard in his head, and his feet were moving, running to Crest before he even realized what he was doing. 

“Hyah!” he yelled, urging her on. The wind whistled in his ears, the ground seeming to fly beneath the horse’s feet as they rode. 

When he arrived, Din’s hands were shaking with adrenaline, unable to calm himself. It was only an idea, a guess at best, but Din was knocking at Boba’s door. There was the shuffle of a chair, the sound of voices. _Voices._

When the door opened, it was a woman that Din didn’t recognize, then Boba pushed past her.

“Din Djarin,” he greeted him, “You’re not who I expected to see today.”

“Can I come in?” Din asked, not sure what he was looking for. 

“Of course,” Boba replied, but Din felt the suspicion behind his words. 

Stepping in, Din looked around as casually as he could, then faced Boba and the woman again. 

“Forgive me,” Boba told him, “This is Fennec Shand.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said politely, extending her hand. Din shook it, wondering where he’d heard her name before. Not that it mattered, his priority was Luke.

“I need your help again,” Din told him, and Boba chuckled.

“More paint?” he asked, sitting down at his table. 

“No,” Din replied, “I want to know any information you can give me about Han Solo.”

The atmosphere changed in a moment, Boba’s face going tense, Fennec reaching for her sword. Din watched her, automatically pulling out his own, taking a stance. She did the same, waiting for his move.

“How does he know about Han?” Fennec asked, her tone biting. “What did you tell him?”

“Relax,” Boba said quickly, placing himself between the two of them. “Both of you, relax! I won’t have blood spilled in my home, you hear me? Put away your swords.”

Din lowered his blade before Fennec did, and she followed reluctantly, but the anger still burned in her expression. 

“What does he know?” Fennec asked. “Why did he come here?”

“Din,” Boba said evenly, “I think you should leave. You won’t learn any more than you already know, not from me and definitely not from her.”

“Luke Skywalker, then,” Din burst desperately, “What about that name? Were you going to tell me you were working with him this whole time? Lying to me directly?”

Fennec reached for her sword again, but Boba gripped her hand, stopping the motion in place.

“So you’ve met him then,” Boba said, watching Din’s expression closely.

“In Mos Eisley,” Din informed him, “He showed himself to me. He could have killed me. But he let me go.”

“I can’t tell you anything more,” Boba said sharply, “You have to leave.”

Din stared at him, breaths heaving in his chest. He knew the look on Boba’s face, knew that he wouldn’t learn any more by being here. 

“If they find out, they’ll hang you for treason,” he said softly, and Boba stared at him.

“Well?” he asked, “Are you going to tell them? Turn me in to your king?”

Din stared at him, words not quite reaching his mouth. He should turn him in, go straight to Bo-Katan and tell her everything, have Fett arrested. They’d no doubt torture Boba, get anything out of him they could, anything to find Luke. Din could go now—could put the city on lockdown if they ran. It would be almost easy. Just like Mayfeld.

_“Din, please, help me-”_

“No,” Din said weakly, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Boba gave him a measured stare then slowly nodded, a silent shared message between the two of them. Even Fennec had seemed to relax, though still wary.

“Alright,” Boba said. “Alright, Din. But I can’t tell you more. It’s not my place.”

“Why did you tell me what he looks like?” Din asked softly, shoulders slumping. “Luke?”

“I thought he might change your mind,” Boba said.

There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other. Then Din left, burdened with the weight of what he’d just done.

Outside, he stood frozen, unable to move. Boba was a traitor and Din had let him go. That made him a traitor too. Din shook himself awake, talked sense back into himself. He needed to move. He needed to get out of here, return to the palace. Stunned, he gripped Crest’s reins and slowly led her away from Fett’s home, drifting aimlessly toward the forest. 

No, he needed to think. God, he needed to think about this. What had he done?

Startled by the sound of voices, Din pulled Crest out of sight, behind the thickness of the bushes. She shook her mane, frustrated by the lack of movement, but went still as Din comforted her, patting her back.

“In here, Chewie,” Din heard, and he watched as two men entered Boba’s home. It was silent, Din staring at the door, waiting. After a moment, the men exited, looking around. Din held his breath, hoping that Crest would stay silent. Then the men were off, and Din knew he had to follow them. 

Gripping Crest’s reins, he pulled her close. “Hey,” he said softly, “Go on without me. Go home.”

Then he urged her on, and she was off toward the palace. Din moved swiftly, being as silent as he could, but the armor he wore was distracting —reflecting the light around him. The men walked quickly, weaving through the crowds. It was remarkable how they managed to be nearly invisible, blending in and shifting through the people around them. It was only luck that left Din able to track them, pulling a cloak off someone as he walked and draping it around himself. Not the best disguise, but better than his armor beaming out exactly where he was.

They led him to a dock, where Din watched them board a ship. This must be Han Solo, Din thought watching as they talked to a woman on board. Din didn’t mind her—he was looking out for golden hair, for any sign of Luke on the ship. 

Perhaps they’d come here without him, Din considered, but he doubted it. If Luke was behind the other political messages, he’d be here for whatever they had planned next. As the two men left again, this time with the woman, Din emerged from his hiding place, staring up at the ship. But then another person came up on the ship’s deck and Din was quick to hide again, watching closely.

Luke. It was Luke. He was wearing some sort of dark cloak, decked in black. Din couldn’t tell quite what he was doing, but he ducked as Luke suddenly looked around, as if sensing his presence. Then he watched Luke quickly exit the ship, swiftly stalking away. Din dared to look up, mark the direction Luke had gone. He waited a moment, then followed him.

The man was just as fast and stealthy as his friends, slipping in and out of corners. Din trailed behind him, careful not to be seen. As they moved more and more, it became clear where Luke was going: to Boba’s house. Sure enough, when Luke knocked, he was let in. Din watched the door, waiting for something else to happen. Then Boba and Fennec left, and Din watched them go out of sight, heart beating loudly in his chest. Luke was in there alone, and Din had the element of surprise. The problem was how skilled Luke was with his sword—even if Din jumped him, there was no guarantee he’d win and no guarantee Luke would spare him again. Still, he had to try. The king was less likely to show him mercy than Skywalker was. 

Edging closer to the house, Din peeked through the window. Luke was sitting in front of the fire, fidgeting with his boots. His sword was still sheathed. Din held his breath. Now was his chance.

He slowly moved back to the door, holding his breath. After a moment, he moved to open it, but was startled to have Luke swing it open just as he got there. Luke looked just as surprised to see him, taken off guard. He was fast, but Din had the advantage here—his blade was already drawn, and he’d pressed it against Luke’s neck before Luke could even unsheathe his sword. 

“Din,” Luke greeted him softly, “You’re good at your job. How’d you find me?”

Din didn’t answer him, only held the blade at his throat, unmoving. Behind him came the sound of the guards, of Bo-Katan’s voice, approaching. Din had the faint thought that they must have followed him, and his stomach churned.

Din saw fear flash in Luke’s eyes, saw a vision of Luke being marched to the gallows in his head. Would he beg for mercy as Mayfeld had? Would he scream as they tortured him?

They stared at each other, Luke’s breaths quickening, waiting for Din to speak, move, do anything. Then, slowly, Din lowered his blade. He could see the puzzlement behind Luke’s expression.

“Go,” Din said, but Luke was still, gaze fixed on Din as if he thought this might be some sort of trick.

“Go!” Din repeated, more urgent as the sounds of the guard grew louder. “Get out of here, before they catch you!”

That seemed to startle Luke into movement, unsheathing his sword. Din thought Luke might stab him for a moment, but instead, Luke leaned up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Din’s cheek before he fled. Din watched him go, hearing footsteps behind him.

“Din Djarin,” Bo-Katan said, and her voice contained a frightening rage that Din had never heard before. “You let him go.”

Din turned toward her, surprised to see that she was the only one there. The others must have gone after Luke.

“He’s too good for your guard. They won’t catch him,” he said.

“You disgrace the armor you wear,” she spat, her eyes flaming. 

Din had no reply for her. Her eyes flickered past him, to the noise of the guards in the distance. Din knew she was itching to chase after Luke, to ensure he was captured herself. 

“I’ll be back for you, traitor,” she spat. “There is nowhere you can hide from me.” Then she was gone.

Din ran. His feet were flying under him, his only thought being to get away. The whole city would be looking for him now, a priority catch just like Luke was. A traitor. 

As Din went on, his feet went toward the docks, and he began to realize why the guards had been yelling. Pirates. More of them, flooding the streets, battling the members of the guard. They were not here with Luke—Din recognized the symbol they wore, vaguely remembered his briefing on their crimes. They were not here on some political mission, no, their priorities focused on money.

It wasn’t long before they took notice of Din, of the armor he still wore, chasing after him. It was much too easy for them to back him into a corner. There were just too many of them. 

“This one’s Captain,” one of them said, eyeing the symbol stamped into Din’s breastplate. “They’ll pay good money for him.”

And just like that, one hit him over the head, and Din crumpled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I again want to say thank you guys SO much for all your support- you truly have no idea how much it means to me and how much motivation it gave me. I know this is being updated very quickly but I already have several chapters ahead already written that are currently being edited so I figured I'd just post this one now<3 thank you so much for reading! Hope you all enjoy

When Din woke, his head ached something fierce, and his mouth was filled with the taste of blood. For a moment, he thought he was in his own bed before his memory returned to him, along with the guilt of what he’d done. He had betrayed the king, betrayed the oath he’d sworn to serve him. But then Din remembered the look of fear in Luke’s eyes, and he knew that betrayal was better than the alternative.

Sitting up, he noted the ropes tied around his wrists and ankles, then the cell he was in. Of course—those pirates must have captured him then, holding him for ransom. Din wondered if they would get it now that he was a traitor. Perhaps they'd be paid more now. Tonguing a raw area on the inside of his cheek, he realized that he must have bitten it, hence all the blood. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, but he turned to the side and spat, trying to rid the taste from his mouth. 

God, it was repulsive here. Turning to his side, he saw a chamber pot next to him. That explained the awful smell. Trying not to gag, Din edged away from it the best he could, pressing against the bars of the cell. Time passed slowly, the sounds of shouting on deck the only thing that changed. Din lolled in and out, sleep taking him every once in a while. He’d doze off for a bit, then wake with the sound of Mayfeld’s voice again. 

Eventually, one of the pirates came down to give him food. “Can’t have our prize prisoner starving, now can we?” the man asked, kicking the plate toward him. Then he went back on deck, and Din stared at the food. It looked like some form of meat and a stale biscuit, and he was hungry enough that he shoved it into his mouth. Not the finest meal he’d ever had, but not awful, either. 

Then he was back to staring off. Days passed like that, Din slowly feeling more and more insane. The smell of the cell was beginning to get to him as time went on, and he was aware that he did not smell very good either. Once a day, the pirates would take him for a walk around the ship, and that was all he could look forward to. Besides that, there was nothing but food, which slowly got more and more awful. Perhaps the stench of his cell was corrupting it.

They eventually cut the ropes that tied him up, deeming the cell a good enough measure against escape. Din was grateful for that, but it was a small mercy. Eventually, he had to fight himself not to plead with them to let him out of this goddamn cell before he lost his mind. He knew it was to no avail, though. They were not ones for mercy, that was clear. And there was no way to escape—there were too many of them and nowhere to go, not while in the middle of the sea. He’d just have to wait until they got to their destination, and work with what he got when he was there.

About two weeks into this excruciating new routine, Din heard yelling from above, and he tuned in with curiosity. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he could tell that something was up. There was more yelling, a moment of silence, and then the sound of a cannon. Din felt the impact of it against the ship, felt the boat heave against the waves. 

Oh, God, they were being attacked. Din didn’t know much about pirate feuds, but he did know that if the ship went down, he’d drown. He stood, gripping onto the bars of the prison cell for support, listening above. Another canon blow hit them, and Din began to panic, but the ship thankfully stayed afloat despite rocking fiercely from side to side. 

The pirates were screaming now, the waves shifting unsteadily beneath them as they went on. Then Din heard more yelling, but not from above. This was coming from something to the side, more muffled than the others. He heard the sounds of a battle over his head and understood—they were being boarded. 

Din was anxious to see what was happening, but he was so isolated down here, so removed from the rest of the ship that he couldn’t even catch a peek. Luckily enough for him, it wasn’t long before the doorway down to his lower level opened and someone was kicked down the stairs. Din recognized him as one of the ship’s men. He supposed that meant they were losing.

Then the swordsman followed after him and Din stared. The man was eccentric, bright-colored clothes flashing in the dim light that came from the deck above. He stared at Din for a moment, tilted his head, then went back on deck.

“Wait!’ Din called, “Wait, please! Let me out!” But the man was gone. Slumping exhaustedly, Din rested his head against the bars and sighed. There was more commotion above, shadows shifting down as people fought next to the door.

All Din could think was how much he didn’t want to die here, not like this. He wondered if the other pirates were any better. Not likely, but at the very least, he’d get a change of environment. He’d memorized everything around him here.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up again and stared. It was Luke. Of course. Luke, who looked clean, unlike Din, and who seemed to glow golden in the dimmed light of the ship, his blue eyes barely visible as he looked at Din. Din could say nothing, couldn’t even beg him to let him out of here. He could only watch as Luke came closer, giving him a once-over. 

“Well, well, well,” Luke said with a grin, tilting his head. “What have we here?”

Din just looked at him evenly, unable to find the words for a reply.

“Say something,” Luke requested, staring at him. “They didn’t cut out your tongue, did they?”

“No,” Din replied, voice scratchy and hoarse. 

“Good,” Luke said, kneeling to get level with the cell’s latch. Din vaguely realized what Luke was doing and shuffled back, watching Luke fiddle with the lock. The door popped open, and Luke backed up. 

“Come on,” he said, “Unless you’d like to die on this ship.”

Din moved past him, legs stiff as a board. God, it was good to move without a sword to his neck.

“What are you doing here?” Din asked, and Luke shrugged. 

“They stole some supplies from Han. We came to get them back.”

“And how many of your men have you lost for supplies?” Din asked, voice steely.

Luke only laughed. “None,” he said, “These people can barely hold a sword. Anyway, they surrendered a bit in. You’re lucky I came down here.”

“Right,” Din said, still not trusting them. But as he followed Luke back on deck, he saw that Luke had been telling the truth—the men had surrendered. The eccentric man Din had seen earlier was eyeing him suspiciously, but Luke only gripped the man’s shoulder.

“We can trust him,” he said, and the man nodded. In the light, Din could see that the man had a wooden leg, partially covered by the pants he wore. He moved so fast on it that it was nearly impossible to tell.

As they continued on, others eyed Din with distrust too, some of whom he recognized. Han, Chewie, Fennec. They stared at him as Luke led Din back to their own ship.

“You’re in rough shape,” Luke told Din, wrinkling his nose. “You could use a bath.”

Din’s cheeks went hot with embarrassment, putting some distance between the two of them. “It wasn’t my choice,” he said, “Do you _have_ a bath here?” 

Luke laughed again. “No, we’ll be on land within the day,” he said, “And you can bathe there.”

Din was glad to hear that. He watched as the crew carried supplies aboard, most of them giving him a glare for good measure. Din didn’t blame them—he knew they didn’t trust him. When they were done, Han approached the helm and steered them off, and that was that. They were sailing away. Giving a sigh, Din sat on the deck, tilting his head back. He was finally off that dreadful place, out of that fucking cell. 

A few minutes later, a few people came on deck from the berth, and Din’s eyes widened. First was the woman he’d seen Han and Chewie with, and then there was Boba, who met his eyes evenly.

“So you survived,” Boba said. “I thought you might have.” He stared for a moment longer, then went about his duties without waiting for a response. 

The woman gazed at him for a long moment, then marched over to Han. “What is he doing here?” she asked, her tone pointed. “He’s Captain of the guard—they’ll come looking for him.”

“Don’t ask me,” Han said, tone taking on frustration, “The kid is the one who brought him on.”

“What’s he thinking?” she asked, to no one in particular. As Din watched her, he was realizing that everyone’s eyes were fixed on him, and he suddenly was once again worried he might be thrown overboard.

Luke had taken notice too, rejoining him where he stood.

“Luke,” the woman said, “This is too far. If you want to send a message-”

“It’s not for a message, Leia,” Luke told her. “We can trust him.”

“Trust him?” Leia exclaimed, “He’s—”

“He could have turned me in,” Luke said quickly, “but he let me go. He’s the one who let me go.”

Her expression relaxed a little, but she still looked wary. 

“So he let you go,” Han said, “Great. The bare minimum. You expect me to trust him because of that? Look at him, he’s still wearing that fucking armor.”

Din looked down at himself, almost in surprise. All those days on the ship had made him unaware of himself, of what he was wearing. 

“It was treason for him to let me go,” Luke said. “And, considering they’ve got a reward on his head, I’d say they found out what he did and want to make him pay for it.”

“A reward?” Han asked, face twisting into false joy, “Even better. Now we have another fugitive they’ll be looking for.”

“You can trust him,” Boba said, and everyone turned to look at him. “I’ve known him for a while—he could have turned me in for treason as well, and he didn’t. I know he’s honorable. You can trust him.”

Han groaned, stalking away, mumbling something about being caught. The rest of the ship relaxed, returning to what they were doing, and Din sat back. 

The armor he wore hardly shone anymore, layered in dredge from his time in the cell, but he still itched to be out of it. It only signified something he wasn’t a part of anymore, reminded him of what he’d done. He might have spared Luke’s life, but that didn’t mean his conscience rested easy now. He still felt guilty for it, still felt shame. Boba Fett had called him honorable. Din knew that he was anything but.

Looking up, he registered that Boba and Luke were still standing there, gazing at him. Din didn’t know what to say.

“How bad do I smell?” he joked, knowing the answer must not be very good. 

Luke grimaced. “Not _that_ bad,” he said, “It could be wo-”

“You smell like shit,” Boba interrupted, and Din deflated. 

“Thanks,” he replied, trying to ignore that fact with how close Luke was standing to him. Really, he wished that Luke hadn’t seen him like this, however awful he looked. But Luke only laughed a little, leaning back against the side of the deck.

“Well, you’ll get a bath soon enough,” Luke told him. “Did they hurt you?”

Din looked at him in surprise, stunned that the man cared. “No,” he said, “I think they wanted me in one piece. You know, for the ransom.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t hear about the price on your head right now,” Luke said, “The moment they reached land, you would have been a goner.”

There was a moment of silence between them, Din looking down at the wood of the deck’s beneath them.

“Thank you,” Luke said softly, and Din turned to look at him. “For letting me go, I mean,” he elaborated. “I… didn’t think you’d do that.”

“I didn’t think I would, either,” Din admitted, returning his gaze to the floor. 

There was more silence before Luke straightened, giving a sigh. “Alright,” he sighed, “I’ve got to get to work. We’ve got something big planned—you’ll see. You can explore the ship if you want. Just… don’t pick up a weapon or anything.” He gave Din an apologetic smile. “Not everyone trusts you like I do.”

Din nodded, watching as Luke walked off. He wished Luke hadn’t told him he trusted him. He didn’t deserve that.

The rest of the trip passed quickly, with Din roaming the ship. When Luke or Boba saw him around, they’d give him an acknowledging nod or a smile, but no one else would. When Din went underboard, he found the eccentric man from earlier standing next to a thin, nervous-looking man who had a hook instead of a right hand.

“Oh!” the anxious man said quickly, “Hello! I don’t believe we’ve met.”

His vowels were clipped with an accent, and Din gazed at him for a moment.

“Hello,” Din replied. “I—I’m Din Djarin.”

“Everyone here calls me Threepio,” the nervous man said, “And this is Artoo.” He gestured toward the eccentric-looking man next to him, who wrinkled his nose. 

“You smell awful, Din Djarin,” Artoo said, going back to what he was doing.

“Oh, forgive his rudeness,” Threepio said, “He’s… a piece of work, unfortunately.”

“Oh, please,” Artoo said under his breath. 

Din decided it was probably better to go back on the top deck, watching everyone else, trying to remember their names. Han and Leia in particular seemed to dislike him, Fennec and Chewie didn’t seem to mind him, and Luke and Boba were—well, perhaps they were his friends.

But then remembered the way Luke had kissed his cheek after Din had let him go, and he flushed with a thought that he couldn’t quite figure out. Whatever Luke considered him to be, it was thinking too highly, putting too much faith in his motivations. Din didn’t know what to say to make him see the truth.

Eventually, land appeared in the distance, and Din was glad to see it, though he was curious how they were to get away with several fugitives on board. 

“Where are we?” he asked Luke, taking in the sight of the city in front of him.

“Bespin,” Luke answered. 

Bespin. Din had never been to Bespin, though he had heard of it. It was a beautiful place, architecture lining the streets. Han weaved the small crew through the city, and to Din’s surprise, no one seemed to notice them much, despite the crowd of them. It was how he’d imagined people had treated Luke in Mos Eisley—turning a blind eye.

When the group finally stopped at a large house, a man opened the gate to let them in and pulled Han into a hug, gripping his shoulders in recognition.

“Han, old buddy!” he exclaimed, “How have you been?”

“Same as always,” Han said, and Lando chuckled and pulled him in toward the house.

“Come on in, everyone!” he said. 

“Now you can have your bath,” Luke said, and Din fought the urge to roll his eyes at the continued mention of it. 

Trailing behind Han, Lando joined the two of them, extending a hand to Din. “Lando Calrissian,” he introduced himself, giving a broad smile. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” Din said, “I’m Din Djarin.”

“Can I ask about the armor,” Lando said, lowering his voice, looking more to Luke than Din. “That’s easy to track. It might cause a lot of attention.”

“Well, he just committed treason,” Luke said, “And then he got kidnapped—he hasn’t had a lot of time to change. The others don’t trust him very much.”

“Right,” Lando said, clapping Din on the back with a grin. “Well, don’t worry—they didn’t trust me either, at first. You’ll get there. I’ll have a bath ready for you, along with some clean clothes.” 

Then he rejoined Han and Leia, and Din stared after him, a ‘thank you’ frozen in his mouth.

“Lando used to be a member of the guard, but he took us in when we needed help,” Luke informed him. “Took a while for him to convince everyone that he was trustworthy, but he got there. You will too.”

His words were gentle, reassuring, but all Din wondered was if he could forgive himself. If he’d ever accept himself with these people, this sorry group of pirates and outcasts. From the outside, Din felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. Being a guard was one thing—being a Captain was another. How was he to ever let that go? Even now, his guilt was threatening to burst out of him, and he was partly sure that Luke made it worse. 

Every time Din looked into his eyes, he saw the flashback of fear, of a blade held against Luke’s neck. Of what he’d almost done, to Luke, to Boba. To what he’d done before, to a person he’d called his friend. He was guilty for what he’d done, for what he’d almost done, and what he’d been too weak to do—all of these were true at once. More often than not, his mind was on the king. On the day he’d sworn his oath, and how simply he’d broken his word. Not once, but twice. Honor above all; wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? 

Din wrestled with these thoughts as he was led along to a room, where Lando showed him around. The simplest of luxuries; a bath, clean clothes, a bed. Din was grateful for all, and even more grateful to be left alone as he enjoyed them. 

The bath—he gazed at it longingly, hand moving to unstrap his armor. _His armor-_

 _“You disgrace the armor you wear,”_ Bo-Katan had said. And she was right. It bore a false loyalty to a king he no longer served. A king he’d betrayed.

As he stared down at the symbol of Captain, something changed inside him. For years, he’d gone unquestioning. He’d told himself that serving the king was for the good of the people, that it was his duty, that it was not his place to doubt the way things worked. 

When Din had caught Mayfeld working against the king, he’d been so confused on how a person so good, a friend—someone who slipped his portions to those who needed it more than he did, someone who cracked jokes to make others feel better, who worked hard and asked for little—how could someone like that be _bad?_ How had Din justified his death in the name of a king who would just have easily let others fall in his name, not caring how much attention their armor attracted, not caring whether people were _good_ or _bad_ so long as they remained loyal to him? 

The notes Din had taken on Luke were in his mind again— _donates everything he steals—_ Din knew that was good, knew that _Luke_ was good, knew that there were plenty of bad people who served the king and were rewarded, and hell if the king paid any attention to the bad they did as long as they praised the way he ruled.

How many endless nights had Din lost sleep because of the _good_ men he’d let them kill? How many more would he have spent awake, haunted, if he’d turned in Luke or Boba, like the guilt inside of him that even now told him that he should? And why was that guilt aching so prominently inside of him when he knew better? Why should he feel guilty for sparing the lives of good people? 

Din suddenly felt sick, overwhelmed, exhausted. It was too much now, too much to see that armor on him, to connect himself with what he’d used to be. He could not bring Mayfeld back—he was not sure he could ever repay that debt. Yet he still could not forgive himself for breaking his oath, even after all of that. It was a strange middle ground of emotion, but he couldn’t remain in the same place any longer. The most he could do was use what was left in him to make the most good in any place that he could. 

Slowly, Din stripped himself of his armor and let it fall to the ground, a resounding thud with every piece that came off of him. Then he bathed himself, scrubbing every inch of his skin with soap until he felt raw. Finally, he was clean, didn’t reek of the sea and sweat and who knows what else. 

Then he dressed in the clothes Lando had given him. The soft fabric lay against his skin like a balm, gentle, cleansing. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he almost didn’t recognize himself. He’d worn the armor for so long that it had nearly seemed a part of him—melded into his flesh and bone. He felt empty without it, but empty was better than guilty, better than the false honor he’d thought he bore. Better than a symbol of betrayal.

When he rejoined Luke and the others for dinner, Luke gave him a wide smile, motioning for Din to sit next to him. 

“I’ve gotta say, I like this look a lot better than that armor,” Luke told him, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. 

Din hesitated, keeping his gaze locked on the plate in front of him. “Me too,” he admitted, and he could swear that Luke’s smile grew bigger at that. Din was also convinced that all the others seemed more relaxed now that he was out of it—though perhaps that was just because they’d been worried about being caught with armor so distinct in its intent. 

As he ate, Luke leaned over to him. “You know, Han thinks we should just lay low for a while. As in, let it air out and all that.”

Din swallowed, a little uncomfortable with how close Luke was to him. “And what do you think?” he asked.

Luke shrugged. “I think it’s a good idea. After all, with what you pulled, half the kingdom is on red alert. People hate the king, but they love good money.”

“With what I pulled?” Din repeated slowly. “And this is coming from the man who stole the king’s jewels from his palace?”

Luke gave a modest smile as he returned to his food, and Din only shook his head. He knew that look—he knew Luke was prideful of what he’d accomplished.

“Can I ask why?” Din questioned, “Why all the politics? What do you hope to gain?”

Luke gave him a strange look, as if he was stunned that Din didn’t already know. “Why?” he echoed, “Why do I want us to be free of a king who doesn’t care whether his people live or die?”

Based on the fire in Luke’s eyes, the pointed tone his voice had taken, and the way he’d set down his fork, Din was suddenly aware that he’d just gotten himself into a long discussion. And Luke seemed to want a response, but Din didn’t know what to say. Was Luke expecting Din to make excuses for his past and all he’d done, to agree with him?

Choosing his words carefully, he chewed on his lip. “I only meant—how are you going to get there? How is all of what you’re doing, the messages and the stealing, how does that do anything?”

“It sends a message,” Luke replied. “So many people hate him, but they’re too afraid to do anything. Too afraid to stand up against him. It’s like they think he’s invincible, that’s how they talk about him anyway.” He paused, looking over at Din and tilting his head. “I just thought that if I could show them that someone like me could stand up to him, then anyone could.”

“Did you tell all those people that you could fight like that?” Din asked, and Luke smiled at his words.

“People have seen me fight,” he answered, “Anyway, it was about the message more than anything. And it’s worked, so far—people are angry. They’re tired of living like this.”

“So everything you’ve done, you’ve done it alone?” Din asked—he’d always assumed that he’d had at least a little help.

“Not alone,” Luke replied. “Everyone here has helped me at least once. Mainly Han, and _he’s_ the one that kills most of the guards, you know. I only do it, well… if I have to. Han doesn’t care about that stuff as much. If he feels like he’s in danger, he does what he needs to.” 

The things Luke said about Han registered in Din’s mind vaguely, but the sentence he’d said before that was what had caught his attention. _Everyone here has helped me at least once._

“Boba Fett helped you steal?” Din asked, a little louder than he’d meant to. Luckily, no one seemed to notice; they were all preoccupied with their own conversations, though he could swear that Boba’s head had tilted toward them a little.

Luke gave Din a coy smile. “More than once,” he said. 

Din couldn’t help hearing what Boba had first told him about Luke in his head. _I may not have_ _seen this particular crime, but I did see the last one._

That bastard. He hadn’t just seen it, he’d been a part of it. Shaking his head in disbelief, Din returned to his meal. 

“Are you really surprised?” Luke asked him. “Or did he just hide it well?”

“It must have been easy for him,” Din sighed, “I was so blind—I never really thought about it.”

Then there was a moment of silence.

“Did you really never doubt the person you were serving?” Luke asked him, pure curiosity twinging his voice.

“I—” Din started, then sighed and shook his head. “I swore an oath,” he breathed, his voice low and gravelly. “It was my duty to keep my word, my duty to serve the king. I thought that committing treason was something so awful, so ingrained in me to consider it evil… I never thought about _why_ so many people I knew and considered my friends, why they were all turning against the king.”

“So you never noticed what the king was doing?” Luke pressed further, food forgotten in front of him.

“I noticed some of it,” Din admitted. “I knew the way he treated people wasn’t right, but I just... thinking anything else but that the king was in his rightful place was like committing treason. I never let myself get far along on those thoughts because I was scared of where it might lead.”

He paused, thinking Luke might interject with something, but Luke only listened patiently.

“I knew things were wrong, I could feel it,” Din went on. “I… I had a friend who I caught working with people the king considered enemies. A member of the guard. It was treason, and I’d caught him red-handed. God, I turned him in. I let them…” He broke off for a moment, hot tears stinging his eyes. “I knew it was wrong, what they were doing, but I still thought that it was for good, in the end. I still feel guilty for betraying him.”

Luke placed a gentle hand on his back, a forgiving touch, and the feel of it was so _burning._ Din felt so much guilt, seeming to swallow him whole. He shouldn’t be forgiven not by anyone, especially not by Luke, who he’d gone after. Who he’d tried to arrest. Din knew better than anyone that his decision not to turn in Boba and Luke had not been motivated by mercy, but by weakness. He was a coward who couldn’t live with any more blood on his hands.

Pulling away, he stood abruptly, not able to look Luke in the eye. He tried to think of an excuse, anything to say as a repentance, but his jaw was locked tight. If he spoke, he’d cry. The last thing he needed was more comfort from Luke that he didn’t deserve.

He just stood still for a moment, then retreated down the hallway toward his room. As he left, he heard Han in the background say, “What’s up with him?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I really appreciate all the comments and your support! Even if I can't reply to all of them I go through each one and you all have been so sweet! Thank you and enjoy this next chapter

Din didn’t sleep that night. As much as he’d scrubbed away from his skin, he still felt filthy inside, guilt spilling through him again and again. He heard Mayfeld crying out, pictured Luke and Boba’s death, saw Bo-Katan calling him a traitor; they lay on repeat in his mind until they consumed him.

He was slightly aware that he was shaking, that his joints ached and his muscles yearned to move, but he couldn’t find it within himself to shift around. He was overly aware of every single breath he took, so tense that it pained him. It was only when he heard a knock on the door that he stirred, sitting up. For a moment, he considered ignoring it but he quickly dismissed the thought, staggering toward the door on his unsteady legs which had gone numb from the lack of movement.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Luke again. He’d thought it might be Boba, if anyone, or perhaps Han telling him that he was endangering them all and that he should get lost.

“Hi,” Luke said hesitantly. “Can I come in?”

Din gazed at him before he nodded and opened the door wider, returning to his bed. He knew he must look a mess like this, clothes already wrinkled, hair tousled, eyes weary from sleep-deprivation. 

Luke sat next to him, eyes fixed downward. In the moonlight that streamed in from the window, Din could see the way his lashes curved against the slope of his cheek. The glow of the light gave Luke’s hair and eyes a silvery sheen. 

“I thought you might be awake,” Luke started, then halted suddenly. “I’m...I’m sorry if I made you upset.”

Din stared at him in rampant shock, barely able to find the words. “You’re _sorry_?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t—you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should be sorry. I… I could have turned you in. I was _going_ to turn you in.”

“But you didn’t,” Luke pointed out softly. “You let me go, and you let Boba go. Why are you mad at yourself for something that you didn’t do?”

“Because I wanted to do it,” Din said, “I hated myself for not doing it. Part of me… still wishes I had. Still wants me to turn you in.” Burying his head in his hands, he stopped himself before Luke hated him. Or maybe Luke _already_ hated him. It was hard to tell, frankly.

“Din,” Luke whispered, gently reaching for Din’s arm. The contact was too much, threatening to pull tears from Din’s already weakened state, too intimate from someone who should hate him. Why the hell didn’t Luke hate him? Why wouldn’t he leave him alone?

“Don’t,” Din said sharply, pulling himself away. There was a moment of silence where Din waited for Luke to hate him, to leave, to see him for what he really was. Instead Luke reached for his arm again, and Din broke down.

The sobs spilling out of him were mortifying—completely broken, wracking through his chest, impossible to stop. Moving in closer, Luke wrapped his arms around Din and gripped him close. Din almost stopped him, almost pulled away and told him to leave. Instead, he gave in and sunk into Luke’s touch, crying into his shoulder.

Luke murmured things that Din couldn’t hear, but he knew they weren’t angry or meant to hurt—they were too soft, too gentle. And he was rubbing his hand up and down Din’s back, a small act of comfort that made Din cry more. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him, gave him any measure of comfort. He certainly didn’t deserve it now, but Luke seemed to insist on it and Din no longer had the strength to argue with him. 

On and on it went—until Din wished it would stop, didn’t know how there was any more pain left in him until it spilled out onto his cheeks, wet and unwelcome. When the tears had finally died down a bit, the aftershocks still making their way through him, Luke shifted a bit, still holding onto him. 

“You should hate me,” Din said, the sensation of Luke’s breathing gradually soothing him.

“I think we already know that telling people how they _should_ feel doesn’t work,” Luke said, a smile audible in his voice. “Besides, I don't judge people on what they want to do or not do. It’s what they do in the end despite their wanting that matters. I don’t hate you and you can’t convince me to hate you.”

Din didn’t know what to say to that.  
He didn’t know how to get his emotions under control right now, to keep his face a mask as it usually had been. He was hard to read, he’d prided himself on that. Here in Luke’s arms, he was an open book, much too easy to view his pages.

“You want to know what I think you should do?” Luke asked, and Din’s attention focused back on his words. Without waiting for a response, Luke continued. “I think that if you feel guilty for your friend, then you should try to make it right. You might have turned him in, but it’s not the same as tying the noose around him. Trust me on that. Would you have done it if it was?”

Din pictured it—Mayfeld at eye-level, pleading for his life. He shuddered. It had been tormenting enough just to watch, even imagining what was happening. He hadn’t been able to look afterward, hadn’t seen anything at all on his way home. The answer to Luke’s question was no. Din knew it, and yet…

“See?” Luke asked, “You wouldn’t have.”

Din didn’t argue, just gingerly pulled himself away from Luke’s grip and gave a deep sigh, running a hair through his hair. 

“Thank you,” he finally said, the words lingering in the air with a certain sort of tension. He didn’t know what else to say. 

Luke gave a nod, sensing the finality in his tone. “I don’t blame you for what you did,” he said, and Din looked up at him in surprise.

“Why?” he asked, voice desperate and hollow.

“Because you feel guilty,” Luke said. “That’s always the start.”

Then he was gone, and Din was left to stare after him. Now that he’d had a good cry, he felt strangely empty, the same way he had when he’d taken off his armor. There seemed to be less and less of the person he knew and more of someone he’d kept hidden. As far as he was concerned, that person was a stranger. With every moment, he was tempted to shove it down again, but he didn’t. He’d done quite enough of that lately.

Slumping down into his bed, he took in a shaky inhale, feeling the way it expanded through his lungs. The room was warm, but not uncomfortably—a gentle breeze drifted in from the windows, as soft as silk. He felt worn out, used down to the bone. Eventually, he became heavy—his legs, his arms, his eyes. Then he felt his mind drifting away, and for the first time in ages, he slept through the night.

* * *

When Din woke, feeling unfamiliarly rested, he groggily looked around. Yesterday had been a wild turn of events that he hadn’t quite been able to process until now, being alone and well-rested. Part of him still thought that he might wake in his own bed in the palace, return to his duties. Perhaps this was all a strange dream, a concoction of possibilities.

But no, this was as real as the feeling of the sheets over him, and there was no erasing it or taking it back. After a while, he got tired of his thoughts and sat up, stretching until the pull of the muscle relaxed him and he got to his feet.

His armor was still on the floor where he’d left it. It was strange to see there—for some reason, he’d supposed that it would be gone by now, carried off by someone or other. Naturally, Lando valued people’s privacies, so of course it wasn’t gone. There it lay, seeming to mock him. He stared at it for a long moment before he entered the hallway, embarrassed by last night’s outburst. To his absolute relief, no one said anything, not even Han. Luke sat next to him, the two of them sharing the intimacy of a shared silence as they ate. 

Din kept trying to find words to say—he didn’t know whether to apologize for what had happened or thank him or talk of something else entirely. He resorted to having his mouth so full of food at all times that Luke wouldn’t dare speak to him. Luckily, the man seemed to get the message, for he didn’t say anything either, besides talking to Chewie some next to him.

Speaking of the food, Din couldn't remember a time where he’d ever had anything as good. Guards weren’t exactly fed the best meals, though there were certainly those who were given worse. By the time his stomach threatened to hurt if he ate any more, he stopped, sitting back in his seat and looking around. 

The others were quietly chatting, halfway through their breakfast. Din was grateful for this because it meant that none of them were paying much, if any, attention to him. Aside from Luke, that is, but Din couldn’t seem to shake Luke no matter what he tried. Anyway, he didn’t mind him being there. He just didn’t know what to say—no matter what their conversation last night had changed in Din, he still hadn’t quite forgiven himself and that didn’t make it easy for him to look at Luke and see anything besides the man he’d almost killed. 

He tried, though. He focused on the blue of Luke’s eyes, which had shifted to a deep grey in the light. He focused on the divots at the edge of Luke’s mouth, the way they effortlessly curved whenever he smiled. But it didn’t take long for Luke to look away from his conversation with Chewie and catch Din staring, and Din didn’t have any excuse. He flushed hot, returning his gaze to his plate, pretending to pick at his food even though he couldn't handle another bite. He could swear that Luke’s smile had gotten more smug, unbearably so, and Din refused to meet his eyes. Anything that Luke would say would be guaranteed humiliation for Din, and he’d already been through enough of that as it was. 

Sometimes he forgot just how smug Luke could be, the way he’d been in that swordfight. But as soon as Din’s thoughts had turned to the fight, all he saw was the flash of Luke’s sword in front of him, the feeling of the distant realization that he’d been losing as Luke gained more and more ground on him. For all the guilt he felt, Din managed to feel a twinge of relief that he was no longer on the side against Luke, because it would have been hopeless if they’d ever really had to fight. The only way Din had even been able to catch him was sheer luck and the benefit of surprise, and then even only just barely.

“Hey,” Luke said, nudging into his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

Din opened his mouth to respond, then was hit with a moment of doubt. Luke, ever attentive, noticed that.

“What?” he asked, giving Din a nudge. “What were you going to say?”

“Where did you learn to fight like you do?” Din asked. He could swear the place that Luke’s arm had brushed against his own now seemed to burn. Then again, it had been so long since he’d been touched so casually, so maybe it was just that.

“Someone named Old Ben taught me,” Luke replied, “He raised me and Leia—she’s my sister.”

“Your sister?” Din asked, eyes drifting over to the woman, who was chatting with Han and Lando as she ate. They didn’t look much alike, but they did seem to have the same spirit, the same fire.

“Yeah,” Luke replied. “We spent most of our childhood separated. After our parents died, she went off to live with a family off to the west and I stayed with Ben. When we got older, we ended up getting a message from her asking for assistance, and Ben and I went over there to help. There’s more than that, but that’s the condensed version of it, at least.”

“And now the two of you work together?” Din asked, and Luke nodded.

“We have our differing opinions about some things, but for the most part, we have the same ideas. It drives Han crazy, though—he sometimes says that having one Skywalker was more than enough.” 

“Was all of the theft your idea? The messages and locations?” Din asked.

“It was mostly a team effort,” Luke said. “Leia hasn’t been the fondest of the outcomes we’ve chosen so far, but it hasn’t been too bad. Han just goes a little far sometimes.”

“And what happened to Ben?” Din asked.

Luke’s expression changed immediately, going sunken and solemn. “He passed,” Luke said, much softer than anything else he’d said since breakfast had started. “A few years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Din replied, and Luke shook his head.

“He had a good, long life. I’m glad he was able to teach me what he did.” Getting to his feet, he pushed out his chair and gave Din a look. 

“Anyway,” he said, grabbing his empty plate, “If you’re really curious about fighting, I could give you a few pointers. Help you out.”

“Pointers?” Din asked, thinking about it. He didn’t quite trust Luke not to immediately shred through him, though the events last night did seem to hold a certain amount of significance between them.

“Alright,” Din relented, “Alright. I’d like that.”

“Good,” Luke said, giving him a broad smile. “I’ll ask Lando where we can find a place to spar.”

* * *

Din hadn’t _quite_ realized how good Luke was until they began. If he had thought that Luke was amazing before, seeing him in all his glory now was indescribable. Every move that Din threw at him, he seemed to see coming, blocking it effortlessly. Din had started off slowly but as Luke continued to overpower him, he increased the force of his blows, tried harder, but to no avail. Luke was just too good. Din could see in his eyes that this was nearly child’s play.

“You took it easy on me last time,” Din told him, and Luke shrugged. 

“Maybe,” he admitted, “But I didn’t want to kill you, now did I?”

“When you asked if I wanted pointers, this wasn’t really what I had in mind,” Din told him, barely managing to counter his blows.

“I wanted a refresher of your fighting style,” Luke replied, “Makes it easy for me to see where your strengths and weaknesses lie.”

Din stepped back, panting as he stared at Luke. “Well?” he asked.

“You don’t trust yourself,” Luke told him, “And the stance you take, the place you keep your defense—they make it easy for anyone to get the advantage over you.”

Din scoffed. “I was trained by the best swordsman in the kingdom,” he said.

Luke looked at him with somewhat of a smile, clearly teasing him. “You mean the best swordsman your king hadn’t killed yet?” he asked. “Most of the good ones were hung for one thing or another.”

Din relented, letting Luke adjust the way he stood, moving his arm to a different angle in front of him, budging Din’s foot until it was pointed in a different direction, turning the way he held his shoulder.

“There,” he said, “Start from this position and always strike from there. It’ll be faster and you’ll have more power in your attacks. Then always return to that position in defense—you’ll be able to stop most fatal blows.”

“I can’t fight like this,” Din told him. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“That’s because you were trained another way,” Luke reminded him. “You just have to get used to it. Try hitting me and going back into this position.”

“That sounds like a bad idea,” Din told him, still feeling uncomfortable in the new stance.

“What, are you scared of a wooden blade?” Luke asked, grinning as he held up the practice sword. “Trust me—the most you’ll do is bruise. I’ve had my fair share of that when I was learning. You’ll live.”

Din still didn’t exactly like the idea, but he readied himself, giving a strike outward. It wasn’t bad but Luke immediately countered, and Din panicked, weakly trying to defend against it. It didn’t work, and Luke tapped Din’s leg with his sword, a place he’d left undefended.

“You strayed from position and left yourself right open,” Luke told him. “You wanted to go back to what you knew.”

“I know,” Din replied frustratedly, “Try me again.”

This time, Din lasted a couple more strikes, but the movements still felt so off and rearranged that he faltered and Luke had the sword at his neck, shaking his head. 

“Strayed from position,” he repeated. “You don’t have your armor anymore. You can’t rely on it to protect you. Focus on defense first, and then attacking. You can’t hit anyone if you’re dead.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Din replied, getting back into the stance Luke had shown him.

Luke observed him, looking him up and down. “Move your shoulder back,” he said, and Din did. He wasn’t the happiest, but he could see how it would give him an advantage. Then he focused on what Luke had said, blocking all the attacks. 

Luke was a very fast fighter, his strikes unpredictable and forceful, difficult to block. Whenever he saw an opening, he took it, and so the next few rounds of sparring consisted of Luke pointing out anywhere that Din had left open and Din getting more frustrated. 

“I _know,”_ Din eventually spat, having had enough.

“Then defend it!” Luke said, “If you really know it, then show me!” He threw a blow at Din, and this time Din caught it well, keeping his guard up. Another strike from Luke that was blocked, another blow, blocked, blocked, blocked.

“There,” Luke said, looking very… proud. “Just like that, keep it up.”

Din sighed and kept his sword at the ready, defending against Luke’s movements once again, this time throwing out an attack himself.

“That was good,” Luke said, “Try again.”

Din centered himself, ignoring the way that the new stance still felt unnatural, and struck. Luke countered it, forcing him back, then letting go of the pressure and circling around him. Din struck again, putting all of his force into it, but he slipped out of position. Correcting himself and taking a step back, he moved to strike, but immediately got blocked. 

“Your arm is open,” Luke said, tapping Din’s arm with his sword. “You want to lose a hand? You had it, but then you started to overthink. Trust your instincts to know when to strike, when to dodge. You _have_ it. Come on.”

“I _am_ trusting my instincts,” Din said, “How else am I supposed to fight if I don’t trust what I’m doing?”

“No, you’re relying on your skill,” Luke told him, “Which, you _have_ , and it’s how you’ve survived so far. But you aren’t fully going through with your movements. I can see you hesitating, and that’s only more room for me to get an attack in as you wonder whether or not to strike. Try again.”

On and on it went, Din and Luke both throwing hits at each other, Din getting progressively more and more used to the feeling of the new position.

Luke’s smile grew more and more with every round, which Din thought might be bad news for his skill, but Luke seemed to think he was improving. Eventually, it did start to feel less and less like Luke had the advantage, but Luke always kept him on his toes. He was quick and lean—he bounced out of the way of strikes and still seemed to know in advance what Din was going to choose to do. But he did manage to get Luke out of breath, and he was proud of that.

Eventually, Din’s body began to ache, and he was ready to call it. But Luke’s eyes were bright, and he still looked as if he was positively thrilled at the amount of improvement Din was having.

“One more?” he asked, and Din gave in.

This time, there was a tension bridging in the air, Din’s breaths pressing in and out of his lungs with certain control. His strikes were measured and quick, and it wasn’t quite so easy for Luke to block him this time. He went on and dodged when he needed to, careful not to leave any of his limbs or organs available to hit. 

“You don’t have armor to slow you down this time,” Luke said. “Makes for a real fight.”

Din struck at him again, but Luke saw it coming, adding a counter-attack and gaining a little ground on him. If Luke was anticipating his movements— _do something he doesn’t expect_ , Din thought. He added in a few more thrusts, giving them all his strength, but knowing that Luke would block them. Then he faked a movement to the right, watching as Luke prepared for it. At the last moment, Din suddenly swung to the left and knocked Luke’s sword out of his hands, pressing the blade to his throat.

Luke was breathing hard. “That was it,” he said, with a grin. “You got it.”

There was something up—it had seemed almost too easy at the end, and the grin on Luke’s face gave him away. Din lowered his blade and shook his head.

“You let me win,” he said. “You’re still taking it easy on me.”

“I thought a win would be good for morale,” Luke replied with a shrug. “Keep this up and you’ll be a force to reckon with.”

“Not like you,” Din replied, shaking his head. No matter how much Luke taught him, there would still be the advantage of pure talent, something that Din simply didn’t possess. Not like Luke. 

It didn’t matter much to Din whether or not Luke would always be better than him. What he really wanted to see what Luke _actually_ trying to his full ability would look like. It was entrancing enough as it is to see him put in moderate effort, to see the way he danced back and forth, sword flowing through the air easily.

“I don’t see why not,” Luke said, tilting his head. “You’re a talented swordfighter. This is only your first day of the new stance, and you’ve already improved so much.”

Din just looked at Luke in disbelief. Did the man really not know how much talent he possessed, how good he was? How unattainable it looked to everyone else? 

“Right,” Din said, not knowing what else to say. If Luke didn’t know how good he was, then there was no way to convey that, not properly. It would only be an inkling, and Din doubted Luke would even believe him.

“How banged up are you?” Luke asked, a certain glint in his eye. Din smiled and rolled his shoulders back, checking in with how he felt. 

“Not bad,” he replied. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” Luke said, dropping his sword and stepping closer. “Here, let me see?” 

Din reluctantly stretched out his arm, which had been the victim of many of Luke’s hits.

“Yeah, that’ll probably bruise,” Luke said. “But you’ll be alright.”

He looked up at Din, something in the air changing. They were very close now; close enough that Din was able to see the sheen of sweat on Luke, see how close his lips were, how flushed his cheeks had become during the fight.

 _Oh,_ he thought helplessly. His breaths were heaving in and out of his chest, mind locked on the gentle way that Luke was still holding his arm, skin callused and warm to the touch.

Then Din pulled away. He wasn’t sure why—if it was fear or the remainder of guilt that still haunted him, or something else entirely. The spell that had sat between them broke, and Luke cleared his throat, looking a little red-faced. 

“Right,” he said, “I’ll see you here tomorrow, same time. We’ll continue this.”

“Right,” Din repeated, watching him walk away. He could almost still feel the place where Luke had held his arm. It burned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! once again thank you all for your support on this--the comments on the last chapter made me cry fkfdjfdkfd. also!! i'm sorry that this one took a bit to get posted, i had to do some reworking on it to fit my outline. it is a pretty long chapter so i hope that makes up for it <3

They focused on sword-fighting for the next few weeks, Din steadily getting better. He wasn’t like Luke—he was still convinced that he would never reach that level, but he still had it in him to be proud of himself when he pulled something unexpected on Luke and the man had to jump away, looking pleased. 

Luke never looked angry or frustrated when Din overpowered him or did something unexpected. He only looked proud, excited even. Din didn’t know what to think of that. Learning how to fight at the palace had been so extremely competitive, any missed strikes considered a failure. Din had done fairly well, and he’d had his fair share of wins, but there were still a few people he’d never managed to beat. Bo-Katan was one of them. 

Din had also heard that the king was a talented swordsman, but he’d never seen him in action. Din wondered if the tales of his skills were as true as the other stories they’d told of him.

As Din continued to train with Luke, there were a few times that other people sparred with him as well. Threepio never dared, but he and Artoo would stand in the corner and watch, making comments as Din fought. It was slightly distracting, but Din learned to keep his focus on whatever was in front of him.

At first, he mainly fought Lando and Luke, who both took it easy on him, then Leia did a couple rounds with him. It only took a couple of her strikes for him to realize that she was just as much of a force as Luke was. Din almost wanted to ask if it was something genetic—if it was in their blood to be amazing at this. Either way, he couldn’t really ask that. He only took his losses to Leia with understanding. She’d seemed to come around on him, and every time she ended up winning, she only gave Din a smile and shook her head, handing her sword back to Luke. 

Han only fought him once, but his strikes were crude and heavy. He was a blunt combatant, with no amount of dignity or stance in the way he fought. Din barely lost the first round he fought Han, and barely won the second time.

“We’ll call it a tie, huh, kid?” Han said to Luke, who rolled his eyes.

“I’ve tried to teach him,” Luke told Din, “But he doesn’t exactly listen as well as you do.”

Din laughed at that, shaking his head as he watched Han return to Chewie, grumbling some excuse about why he’d lost.

But when Boba first volunteered to fight him, Din was taken a bit off guard. He’d never seen Boba fight—only knew that the man had the full capability to defend himself. Fighting Boba Fett was intense in a way it hadn’t been with anyone else—his moves seemed harsh, calculated. He seemed to have no issues on hitting Din with force in any opening he found, a mercy that Din didn’t know the others had been giving him.

It was on the third round they fought that Din finally won, having taken note of the opening that Boba sometimes left as he attacked. If Din were to dodge, then strike… he circled, waiting for Boba to hit. They watched each other, waiting, then Din threw in a strike to get Boba moving. It took him a bit to get the right angle, to get far away enough to dodge the blows that Boba threw at him but to also be close enough to take advantage of the opening.

Luke and Han were watching, both yelling different advice. 

“Keep yourself guarded!” Luke said, “Don’t fall out of position!”

“Hit him!” Han yelled. “What are you waiting for?”

Din took Luke’s advice. He returned to his stance and waited for that opening. Boba struck, his left arm opening—Din dodged, rolling out of the way then came up and struck, his sword pointed directly at Boba’s wide open abdomen.

Boba only nodded, the hint of a smile barely ghosting his lips. “You’re good,” he said simply. Then he strode back to Fennec, who was watching with keen interest.

“What about you?” Din called, motioning to the sword Boba had left. “Don’t you want to try?”

“Oh, you don’t want to fight _her_ ,” Han said, “She’ll leave you in pieces.”

“Then she can show me that herself,” Din said, still gazing toward Fennec.

“Alright, Djarin,” she said, picking up the sword. “This should be interesting.”

They both took their stances, waiting. Fennec was the first to strike. She was similar to Luke and Leia in her sophistication, but the way she fought was not quite so—reserved. She hit him the same as Boba, no mercy for how hard she slammed the sword into him, and he’d called a loss within the first thirty seconds.

“Again,” Din requested, and Fennec complied, her smile growing. This time, Din was ready for her intense slashes, the way she seemed to slink in and out of her movements, the way she dodged and parried, the roughness of her blows forcing him back.

Din heard Luke’s voice in the background and took it as a reminder—he returned to his stance and kept his arms locked, waiting to defend himself. She struck and struck and struck, making it impossible for Din to hit her. It was hard enough to keep blocking her as she did that. Then she went for his leg, and Din was forced to jump out of the way, his breath getting quicker and more strained. She was _good._ Maybe not the same as Luke or Leia, but still a mighty force to be reckoned with. 

_Come on,_ he told himself, _look for her weaknesses. Start slow, pay attention. Find out where you can strike, and take it. Don’t overthink._

With the force of her blows, Fennec always needed a second or two to recover afterward, to ready for her next attack. Din kept his guard up, gave her a weakness he knew she’d go for—an open area near his side. She went for it, Din stepped back, parried, and then struck as she went to recover, calling a win as he held his sword to her throat.

She laughed, her voice echoing through the walls of the room, panting for breath. “Alright,” she said, “Skywalker’s taught you well.”

Din grinned at her, lowering his blade as he tried to catch his breath.

They decided to call it a night after that—they were all plenty tired. But before Luke left, Din waited for him, seeing Luke’s smile as he saw him.

"Din," he greeted him, "That was some nice swordwork out there."

“I want to get rid of my armor,” Din blurted, and Luke’s smile melted into surprise.

“Your armor?” he asked, tilting his head and examining Din’s face as if he was trying to decipher Din's thoughts.

“I mean—I think we could melt it down, turn it into something else,” Din explained. “I don’t need it anymore. It’s just been sitting in my room.”

“We might be able to make it into a sword or two,” Luke said. “Or some different armor, if you wanted.”

“Din shook his head. “The swords are good,” he said, and Luke gave him a warm smile. 

“I’ll ask Lando to pick it up,” he said, “He’ll know what to do with it.”

“Thank you,” Din replied, dipping his head into a nod before he turned in for the night. 

* * *

With as much friendship he’d gained there, the others still didn’t trust him enough to tell him their next plan. Well, Luke did, but the others had all voted otherwise, except Threepio. Din didn’t talk to Threepio and Artoo much, but when he did, Threepio seemed to brighten. He’d seemed quiet at first but Din soon learned that he was quite the opposite—he would go on and on for hours about something or other. This only seemed to be tolerated by a few people; namely, Luke, Din, and Artoo. 

Din didn’t mind it much, but he mostly tolerated it for Luke—Artoo and Threepio were always around Luke, so Din ended up being with them too.

His lessons with Luke had become less like lessons and more like sparring, the two of them dueling with each other for longer and longer periods of time. Each time they went against each other and Din caught a glimpse of Luke’s pure unadulterated skill, he thought _Liberi,_ thought _Liechtenauer,_ thought _Achilles._ Had Luke not been so endearing, Din thought he might have been jealous. But every time that he called a loss, the way that Luke smiled at him and offered him a hand up persuaded Din that Luke's skill was with him for a reason.

While it was rare for the others to spar with each other, it happened once or twice. Fennec and Boba would go against each other every now and then, which was fascinating to watch because there was never any telling who was going to win. Han once sparred with Lando, and that had been mildly interesting—Lando had won, but it'd taken him a while to get there. Once, Leia went against Luke and Din watched in keen interest. 

“Oh, this should be good,” Han said, leaning against the wall as they started. 

Luke was the one to strike first, and Leia blocked his movement immediately. Then the fight really started. It was here that Din began to see a full demonstration of what both Leia and Luke could really do. They moved quickly, hardly ever stopping, a series of strikes and blocks and parries, dodging into a thrust, rolling to avoid being hit, holding one’s blow until they both let go and dodged away. 

Din was entranced as he watched, the two of them flowing through again and again and again, the twins getting more and more out of breath, the room slowly going hushed as they watched. It appeared that Din wasn’t the only one who was fascinated by the raw talent that exuded from these two. Eventually, Luke won, but it was only barely, and Leia took it with a good-natured smile. 

“Does he always win?” Din asked Han.

“No,” Han replied, “Leia won the last two.”

Din was pretty sure that Leia was the only one Luke would ever lose to.

* * *

One day, a couple hours after sparring with Luke, he received a knock on his door and opened it to see Luke wearing a cloak, holding a couple of baskets.

“Hey,” he greeted Din, and Din pointedly looked down at the baskets in Luke’s grip.

“Hi,” Din said hesitantly, wondering what he was about to get himself into. But Luke only gave a modest laugh, shifting his cloak a little.

“Don’t worry, it’s not anything bad,” he said, “I’m just going out into town. Usually, Leia comes with me, but she’s busy right now. I was wondering if you wanted to.”

“What are the baskets for?” Din asked cautiously, not being able to help the tension that was writing itself into his shoulders.

“You’ll see,” Luke said. “Like I said, it’s nothing bad. It’ll be fun.”

Din hesitated. “The guards. Won’t they be on the lookout?” he asked, and Luke shrugged.

“We’ve been staying pretty quiet, so the patrols have slacked a little,” he replied. “Plus, we’re mainly going to be using back alleys and you don’t have your armor anymore.”

“Alright,” Din said cautiously, taking the basket that Luke held out to him. He hoped Luke was right about this—about the guards, and about this being fun. Sighing, he followed Luke out the door, tucking the basket further up on his arm to keep it secure. As it turned out, Luke was hard to follow even when Din was on his side. He seemed to slink through the streets, watching out for guards, weaving his way through the people. 

Din couldn’t do that. He found himself trailing behind, bumping into the crowd, frequently apologizing. Every so often Luke would stop and wait for him, but he didn’t seem impatient. In fact, his eyes were bright with anticipation and he would give Din a smile whenever Din rejoined him. Din did his best to return it. 

Eventually, they found their way to a little back street and suddenly Din understood exactly what Luke was doing, and had been doing all along. Children. There was a scatter of them, a maturity in their expressions that was far too much for their age. But they looked well-clothed and well-fed, which at least gave Din relief, though he knew it must be Luke’s doing. When they saw Luke coming, they all lit up and ran toward him, laughing and giving him hugs.

“Where’s Leia?” one of the children asked, looking around as if Leia might appear out of nowhere.

“She couldn’t come today,” Luke explained gently, “But I brought someone else for you all to meet. This is Din!”

As they saw Din, they gathered around him, looking at him with curiosity. Din had expected them to flee or hide, but it was apparent that they trusted anyone who was with Luke. He gave an awkward wave, and they all beamed up at him. “Hello,” he said, and they all echoed him.

“What’d you bring, Wormie?” one of the smaller children asked, her eyes focused on the basket in Luke’s hand.

When Luke saw Din’s expression, he gave him a smile. “A nickname,” he explained, nudging into Din’s shoulder before he knelt down. “I brought the shoes you needed, Lily,” Luke said, handing the girl a pair of shoes. “And… for everyone, treats,” Luke told the rest of the children, opening his basket.

Inside, it carried small treasures—honey cakes, loaves of freshly made bread, and apples, all bundled up in easily carried packages. The children eyed it hungrily, patiently gathering around as Luke handed them out. Then he looked to Din pointedly, who suddenly remembered that he was holding a basket. He handed it over, finding similar things inside, all of which Luke handed out. There were a few extras. 

“Anyone new?” Luke asked, and one of the older children hesitated. 

“There’s a new little boy,” the boy called, “But he’s with a guard. He tried to steal some food. He’s… _really_ small.”

Din saw the way Luke’s face changed, the way he went tense, ready for a fight.

“Where?” Luke asked, and one of the children pointed out the location for him. Luke handed the baskets with the rest of the food over to the children, then was immediately on his way. Again, Din had to struggle to keep up with him. He knew it was dangerous to cause a scene with a guard—especially while an ex-Captain was present—but he also wasn’t going to talk Luke out of this. Luke had his own honor code, and this was where it lay. 

It took them a couple of minutes to reach the destination, but when they got there, it became clear just how small the boy was. He couldn’t have been more than three or four, his feet bare and blistered from the heat of the streets. The child was so very thin, covered in grime. And he was crying, pulling at the guard who gripped his arm far too tightly—Din could tell that hold would bruise the boy's arm. As the guard held him, the child tugged at the man, howling and trying to get away, hitting at his arm. The man turned toward him and promptly delivered a sharp blow to the child’s face, and at that moment Din saw red.

Luke moved to action, but Din got there faster, gripping the guard and forcing him away from the boy. Then, barely thinking, he balled his hand into a fist and struck the man’s face, adding another afterward for good measure. The man crumpled.

 _This is not honorable,_ Din thought as he looked down at the guard, who was laying on the ground and groaning. But then he remembered how hard the child had been hit and Din understood— _this man was not honorable either._ Guilt lingered at the edge of his emotions, but also a justification for what he had done. He turned back to Luke, who was now holding the crying boy, an indiscernible expression written into his face. 

Din opened his mouth to explain himself, to apologize—but the sound of voices came behind them and they were both forced to move away from the site. They knew what would happen if they were caught, and even more, if they were caught and _recognized._

Is he alright?” Din asked softly, and Luke gave a nod.

“His lip is split and bleeding, but he’ll be okay,” Luke confirmed.

Din felt a sense of relief at that, at the fact that the child would be cared for now. How had he ended up here, hungry and alone? Where were his parents? Those questions faded as he followed Luke into the house, quickly closing the door and standing there, hushed, as they listened to the guards run past.

“That was too close,” Luke said, gently setting the child down. “Will you get me a rag?”

Din gave him a nod, quickly moving back to a room and grabbing a clean cloth and a bucket of water. Luke gently sponged over the child’s wounds, stopping when the child winced.

“I’m sorry,” he told the boy, “I know it hurts.”

He returned to dabbing at it, the child’s tears making tracks in the layers of dirt on his face. He’d need a bath, new clothes, and more importantly, food. Returning to the kitchen, Din grabbed the first thing he saw, which happened to be bread. When he returned, Luke was checking the child for other injuries, delicately treating the blisters on his feet.

Din knelt down next to him and the child started—before his eyes wandered down to what Din held.

“Here,” Din told him, nodding at the food, “Are you hungry?”

The child just gazed at him, flinching as Din held out some bread toward him. “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “Here, do you want it?”

The child carefully reached out, still hesitant, but now driven by his hunger. As soon as he’d grabbed the bread from Din he was scarfing it down as if it was ambrosia, swallowing it almost faster than he could chew.

“Whoa, whoa,” Din chuckled, “Slow down.” At the sound of footsteps, Din looked up to see Leia standing behind them, arms crossed over her chest but her expression solemn.

“What happened?” she asked, kneeling with them in front of the boy.

“He stole some food,” Luke explained, cleaning off his hands. “We found him with a guard.”

Leia was silent for a moment, understanding the implications of that. “Did they recognize you?” she asked, brows drawing together in concern.

“I’m not sure,” Luke said, “But we’ll probably have to play it safe for a while.”

Leia only nodded, her eyes fixed on the boy, still working on the bread that Din had given him. 

Luke laughed a little, nose scrunching up as he did. “You probably shouldn’t have given him the whole loaf,” he told Din, leaning back from his squat and sitting on the floor.

“I… I’m not around kids very much,” Din confessed. “This is all new to me.”

“You’ll learn,” Luke assured him. “For now, we should get him bathed, the wounds he has bandaged up, and some new clothes.” He looked from Din to Leia.

“I’ll ask Lando about the clothes,” Leia said, rising to her feet and immediately heading toward a back room.

“I can bathe him,” Din said, even though he’d never done that before. How hard could it be?

“I’ll help you,” Luke said fondly, his smile widening. 

Gingerly, Din raised the boy into his arms, careful not to hurt him. The boy didn’t seem to mind—his attention was still focused on the bread, which there was significantly less of now.

“Do you have a name?” Din asked him, and the boy looked up at him with wide eyes.

The child’s voice was muddled with the speech of a toddler, but he spoke up and said something that sounded like, well... Grogu.

Din looked to Luke, who shrugged his shoulders. It appeared neither of them had heard that name before.

“One more time?” Din requested. “What’s your name?”

“Grogu!” the child said, this time more insistent.

Whether that was a nickname or a muddled distortion of another name, Din didn’t know. “Grogu?” he repeated, and the boy’s eyes lit up.

“Grogu,” the boy agreed. Then he returned his focus to the bread. 

“Think all that bread will make him sick?” Din asked Luke.

“It might,” Luke admitted, “But I think he’d be angry if we try to take it now.”

“Maybe we should just leave it,” Din agreed, walking down the halls. “Think Lando could get him a bath?”

* * *

When the bath was ready and the bread had been eaten, Din gently removed Grogu’s tattered clothes and cautiously lowered him into the water, taking soap and softly beginning to remove the layers of dirt from the boy’s skin. Luke tackled Grogu’s hair, a wet mop of curls that had gotten far too long.

“He looks like he’s been on the streets for a while,” Luke said, “but I don’t understand how I wouldn’t have seen him before.”

Din was silent, contemplating. “Maybe his parents didn’t care for him?” he offered, “Or maybe he was on the other side of town and found his way here.”

“Maybe,” Luke replied, “Anyway, he’s safe now.” 

He still looked a bit unsettled, and Din’s mind wandered back to the other children, to the way he’d registered that they were well-dressed and fed, all of Luke’s doing. It was obvious he cared about these children. But how had so many of them found their way to the streets?

“All those kids,” Din said, looking down at the ground. “Where do they come from? Where are their parents?”

“Dead,” Luke said bluntly, carefully lathering up Grogu’s hair and working his way through it. “The king killed them and he didn’t bother to check what they left behind. “ He paused, trying to work out a tangle from the boy’s hair. “They all have a place to sleep and permanent food, but we’re working on getting them more people to watch over them. I bring them new clothes when they need it, and fresh food when I can, things they wouldn’t usually get to eat.”

A silent fury burned in Din’s chest at Luke’s words. _The king was supposed to protect his people, not murder and abandon their children,_ he thought. He was slowly beginning to see the reason behind all of Luke’s anger, the reason that the people bent so quickly toward revolution, the reason that people like Mayfeld had turned against their oaths.

There was a moment of silence as Din continued to clean Grogu up. “And this one?” he asked. “What will happen to him?”

“We’ll watch over him,” Luke said. “He’s younger than any of the other children I’ve seen. He can’t handle himself.”

Din didn’t think that anyone in the group could object to that—not while seeing the way the child’s ribs poked out, seeing Grogu’s big eyes looking at them.

Gazing down at his hands, Din saw that there were bruises blooming upon his knuckles, flushed ruddy and throbbing. He hadn’t hesitated to hit that guard. Was this who he had become? But even now, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel the full taste of guilt, not after what that man had done.

Luke followed Din’s eyes, staring down at Din’s hands. “Does that hurt?” he asked, and Din shook his head.

“I—when he hit the kid, I… I just…”

“I know,” Luke said gently. “I wanted to hit him, too.”

Then he stood and carefully pulled Grogu out of the water, wrapping him in a towel. The boy was shivering in the cold air, and Din hoped that Lando had gotten those clothes. 

“I can take it from here,” Luke said, balancing Grogu on his hip. “You can go get dinner with the others.”

Dinner. Din hadn’t even realized that it had gotten that late. But he hesitated, despite the growling of his stomach. He didn’t want to leave the child, even if Grogu was in the best of hands. Reluctantly stepping away, he turned and went back to the dining room, sitting in the empty chair next to Boba.

“Heard you two got yourselves into trouble,” Han said, shoveling food onto his plate. “What’d you do?”

“Saved a kid,” Din said. “I… punched a guard in the process. I’m sorry.”

There was a moment of silence before Han let out a laugh. “You sure turned around from Captain, didn’t you?” he asked, but the guilt in Din’s chest when he thought of the king said differently.

“He hit the kid,” Din replied softly, staring down at his plate, and the room settled. “The child stole some food and the guards took him, and they… hit him. Luke and I were there watching. I couldn’t just stand by.”

The environment in the room changed, a hushed silence taking over. Across the table, there was a stir of conversation between Artoo and Threepio, too quiet for Din to hear. As they spoke, he thought of what Luke had said. _I wanted to hit him, too._ By the way that people were reacting, he was fairly sure that everyone there would have done the same thing to protect the child. It was strange, as different as they all were, they all held their own place of honor. They all valued certain things. They just seemed to show it differently.

“Any idea how long they’ll look for you two?” Han asked, stirring Din’s attention.

“I’m not sure,” Din admitted, his gaze focused on his plate. “If they didn’t know who we are, maybe a few days? But, if the guard I hit knew who I was? A lot longer. And with a lot more people.”

“We’ll be careful,” Lando said. “We’ve dealt with worse. It’s not like guards can’t be paid off or avoided.”

“Well, we’re safe, that’s all that matters,” Threepio chimed in. “Artoo and I think you did the right thing.”

“Thanks,” Din said softly, picking at his food before he forced himself to let his thoughts go and to actually eat. After a couple of bites, it was much too quiet for his liking, so he swallowed and looked around. “How’s the night been for you all?”

“Uneventful,” Fennec replied. “Hearing that you and Luke beat up some guard and stole a kid was the most fun I’ve had all night.”

Din fought the small smile that tried to show itself on his lips and returned to eating.

“I’m afraid I have to agree,” Threepio replied, his hook hand placed on the table in front of him. “It’s been rather boring.” He paused for a moment, fork held in his other hand, halfway between him and his plate. “Is the child staying with us?”

“Yes,” Din answered. “At least, that’s what Luke said.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t find the words. His plate was clearing up faster than he liked—now he’d have no excuse not to talk.

“I’m having a room set up for him right now,” Lando volunteered. “Unless one of you would rather keep him with you?”

“I… you’ll have to ask Luke about that,” Din replied, “I’m not sure it’d be the best idea for him to be with me.”

“Right,” Fennec replied, eyes glinting. “You only punch guards for kids, not take care of them.” 

A joke. Din fought for a reply, his brain seeming to whir around. Then he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall behind him, and he turned to look. 

It was Luke, with the newly dressed child in his arms. As they entered, nearly everyone seemed to coo over him as he sat at the table. Fennec eyed the bruise on Grogu’s cheeks, coming closer.

“Was that from the guard?” she asked Din instead of Luke, pointedly looking over at him.

“Yes,” Din answered, anger building up in him even now at the sight of the injury. Surely it must be painful, starting to swell. As Fennec gently drew her fingers over it, Grogu squirmed away from her touch.

“Din,” she said softly, her voice taking on a certain sharpness. “Tell me you hit that guard hard.”

A moment of silence sat between them. “I did,” Din confirmed, his tone hushed. Fennec gave a nod and stood, returning to her seat. 

“Twice,” Luke said, brushing Grogu’s hair out of his face. “He hit him twice.”

“Hell,” Han said, staring at the kid, and even his eyes were fond. “Let’s make him an honorary member of the crew. The Falcon will be happy to have him.”

Din had thought Han meant the child, but when he looked around, everyone’s eyes were fixed on him. His cheeks went hot, flushed with a sort of embarrassment. What he’d done hadn’t been some sort of heroic venture, it had been borne of anger, of hatred. 

“I’m… I only punched a guard,” he said. “It wasn’t anything—heroic.”

“Seems pretty heroic to me,” Fennec said, her smile growing. “Ex-Captain punches a guard to save a child.”

“I didn’t need to punch him,” Din confessed. “The child was already safe.”

“Right, because the guard would have let you just walk off with him?” Artoo asked, finally speaking up. “I would have hit him.”

“Twice?” Din asked. “You would have hit him again?”

“More,” Artoo answered. Threepio looked a little appalled at that answer, but he only shook his head and returned to his food.

“Me too,” Fennec said. “In fact, if you ever see him again, point him out to me.”

“Does he have a name?” Leia asked. “Did you ask him?”

“Well,” Luke started, looking over at Din for help.

“He says his name is Grogu,” Din finished for him. “He responds to it, at least.”

“Grogu,” Leia said, and the boy turned over to her, eyes lighting up. She gave a shrug, looking over at Han. 

Han shook his head. “Maybe he just had some weird parents.”

Din thought of how skinny the child looked even now, the way that Luke had appeared unsettled at the sight of him. The thought of parents mistreating their own child. 

It was clear that Grogu was content with Luke, at least. He sat still, playing with a small knickknack it appeared Luke had given him. Feeling eyes upon him, Din looked up to find Luke's gaze on him. Fighting the embarrassment he felt, Din kept his eyes locked on Luke, sustaining the eye contact.

“Lando was… asking where he should sleep,” Din said, gesturing toward the child. “He could have his own separate room.”

To Din’s surprise, Luke addressed the child. “Grogu,” he said, “Where do you want to sleep tonight? In your own room?”

Grogu looked up at Luke, tilting his head. Din wondered if the boy could understand them. But Luke only stood, hefting the child up with him.

“I guess we’ll see,” he said. “Lando, were you going to have him in the room next to mine?”

“Yeah,” Lando replied, “I figured that would be the best option.”

Luke gave a nod, and Din stood too, pushing out his chair and standing up. He wanted to talk to Luke, even if he didn’t know exactly what to speak about. And Luke seemed to wait for him, so it appeared he felt the same way.

“How is he?” Din asked, “Has he said anything to you other than his own name?”

“He’s said a couple words,” Luke replied, “Mostly about food.”

“Oh,” Din replied. There was a moment of silence, thick between them. Din wasn’t sure how to repair it, what he should say—or if he should say anything at all. 

As they continued down the hall, Grogu suddenly made a noise and the two of them stopped in their tracks as they watched Grogu reach out to Din, arms open wide.

“I think he wants you to hold him,” Luke said, and Din gently lifted Grogu into his arms. The child sighed in content, resting his head against Din’s chest. 

When they reached Grogu’s room, Din carefully opened the door and attempted to set Grogu on the bed. But it really was only an attempt, because Grogu clung to him and refused to be released, and Din had to take him back into his arms. When he tried to set the boy down again, Grogu fussed even louder, scrambling about in an attempt to get back into Din’s hold. Sighing, Din picked him up again and looked to Luke, who was trying to hide his laughter.

“I think it might be better if he’s in your room,” he said, and Din had to agree with that.

“Alright,” Din replied. “Has he—gone to the bathroom?”

“Yes,” Luke replied, his smile growing even wider. “He should be good for the night.”

Din gave Luke an awkward nod, shifting the child’s position in his grip. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said. 

“See you,” Luke replied, and Din walked the path back to his room. As long as Grogu was in Din’s arms, he seemed perfectly happy to sleep. Even now, he was starting to drift off, eyes fluttering closed.

When they got to Din’s room, Din sat on the bed and put Grogu down, who now seemed happy to nestle into the sheets as long as Din was next to him. He was asleep within a few minutes, and Din stared at the boy for a moment before he set his head down and closed his eyes.

When Din woke, he was surprised to find the boy snuggling into him, still asleep. Din shuffled a little, trying to get more comfortable but prioritizing keeping Grogu asleep. 

He stared at the ceiling, wondering why on earth the kid would choose _him_ to be his favorite. But he supposed there was no reasoning with him, especially not at the moment. You couldn’t exactly tell a child not to like someone. Besides, Din felt a certain amount of flattery at the way the child acted with him, despite how new it was. He sat like that, deep in thought, until Grogu woke up. The boy sat up and yawned, getting out of bed. 

“Whoa,” Din said, standing up too. “Where are you going?”

Grogu tugged on Din’s shirt, holding up his arms. Din bent down and picked him up again, brushing his hair out of his face. He needed it cut—it fell into his too often, blocking his sight. Even Grogu seemed irritated by it, brushing it away from his forehead with clumsy fingers. 

“I'm hungry,” he said simply, and Din nodded.

“We’ll get you some food, kid,” he said, opening the door and heading down toward the dining room.

When he entered, only a few people were awake. Luke, Leia, Artoo, and Threepio.

“How’d it go?” Luke asked, “Did he go to sleep alright?”

“He knocked out in a couple of minutes,” Din replied, setting the kid into a chair. Grogu didn’t mind being put down—he stared at the food in front of him with hungry eyes. Din scooped up some food for him and sat down, filling his own plate. 

As he began to eat, he swore that Luke’s gaze was on him. But when he looked up, Luke was talking to Leia. Din figured he must have imagined it.

Over the next few weeks, the group laid low, all taking care of the kid. Though Grogu clearly had a special spot for Din and Luke, he became fond of others—Leia, Fennec, Artoo. Artoo especially, because Artoo liked to play little games with him, keeping the child fascinated with stories that were probably a bit mature in violence for the boy’s ears. Threepio was quick to scold Artoo when he went too far, but Artoo would only give him a grin and continue, and Grogu was very happy with that. 

With time, they managed to coax Grogu into sleeping in his own bed, and Luke would often come into breakfast with Grogu already dressed and ready to go. On rare days, neither of them would be there, and Din would enter Grogu’s room to find the boy fast asleep. On those occasions, it was Din who dressed the boy and took him to breakfast.

A few weeks later, Din started to notice that Lando would appear for certain amounts of time, leaving for days at a time before he’d returned, grinning at Din like nothing had ever happened. Din knew better than to ask, but Din had to admit that his curiosity was piqued. 

After a couple weeks of this, Luke started to go with him, giving Din an unapologetic look each time. “I’ll be back soon,” he’d say, and if it wasn't for Luke’s sword-fighting skills, Din thought he would probably be more afraid for him. There was always a relief when he returned, bearing a wide smile, giving a hug to everyone—including Din.

Din wasn’t used to such casual touch, the way Luke’s arms wrapped around him. It made him think of the kiss on the cheek that Luke had given him, the tension between them that first night of sparring. Din always returned the hug, but there was always that fear in him that caused him to pull away.

Eventually, the trips consisted of everyone but Din, Grogu, Artoo, and Threepio, who were left behind at the house. Din found that Artoo was brash, yet loyal—he seemed to hold the most fondness for Luke, Grogu, and Threepio. He had quite an attitude, but he also startled laughs out of Din when he made a crude comment here and there. Threepio would fuss over those remarks, but Artoo only grinned and patted his shoulder, and it was clear they were quite close. Din wondered how they had met—any of them, for that matter. When had Leia and Luke met Han, and Chewie, and the others? Din pondered this on the occasions the group was gone, wondering if it would ever come up.

One night, Din woke to a knock at the door and opened it to see Luke, who looked fresh off the ship.

“The swords are done,” he said, and Din blinked at him, confused. 

“What swords?” Din asked, still half-asleep.

“The swords from your armor?” Luke elaborated. “That I told you I’d have Lando see about?”

“Oh,” Din said, “Why are you telling me this?”

Luke stared at him incredulously then laughed, gripping Din’s shoulder. “Well, one of them is for you,” he replied, as if that was obvious.

Din was reluctant to accept that but he followed behind Luke nevertheless as they made their way into the main room.

“There you are,” Lando said when Din arrived, motioning to the swords. “What do you think?”

There were two of them and a dagger, all glinting the same silvery sheen that his armor had been. Din was relieved to see that they’d also melted down the signet of Captain, as it was nowhere to be found. 

Generally speaking, the blades were beautiful. Din picked one up, marveling at the way it moved, the way the air whistled behind each gesture. It had been a fair amount of time since he'd held a real sword and not the wooden ones they had practiced with—the weight of it almost felt unnatural. He set it down and picked up the next one, which he thought might be his favorite. It was the slimmer of the two, the symbol of a willow stamped into it. The weight felt more balanced in his hand, following his movements more. There was something about this one that enticed Din—it seemed to fit perfectly in his hands, obey his commands exactly as he wanted it to. 

Luke and Lando were watching him with some sort of hidden interest, the way he went through one of the stances that Luke had taught him before he set it down again. He glanced at the dagger before picking it up—this one had jewels embedded at the hilt, red rubies that shimmered as he held it up to the light. It was nice, but he’d never been one for daggers. He set it down again and looked back to Luke and Lando.

“Well?” Lando asked. “What do you think?”

“They’re beautiful,” Din said. He had never seen swords like that.

“Which one are you taking?” Lando pressed him, and Din looked back to the slimmer one he’d liked. 

“Are you sure?” Din asked him. The last time he’d held a sword, it’d been at Luke’s throat, wearing that armor. 

“I’m sure,” Lando confirmed, “It was _your_ armor, after all.”

Din gently lifted the sword into the air, gazing at it again before he gave a nod and turned back to them.

“Good,” Luke said, “I liked the other one.”

Din grinned, shaking his head, watching as Luke lifted the bigger sword into the air, doing a few strikes. He’d certainly be a force to reckon with. Din could only hope that Luke wouldn’t insist on a duel with their real swords this time.

“Alright, come here,” Lando said to them, holding out sheaths for them to take. Din slid his into the sheath and attached it to his belt, feeling different somehow.

“We’re going to be leaving,” Luke said to him, “in the morning. We’re making one final movement. The others all agreed we should tell you about it—I’ll brief you on the way over.”

“Grogu?” Din asked, thinking of the child—they couldn’t exactly leave him behind.

“He’s staying with Artoo, Lando, and Threepio. They agreed to watch him,” Luke replied. 

“Does this mean I’m getting back on a ship?” Din asked, trying to hide his distaste. He’d had quite enough of sea travel for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” Luke said, “We’ll be getting on early tomorrow morning.”

This time, Din let out a groan, feeling Luke pat his back.

“Don’t worry,” Luke said, “It’ll be a short trip. No jail cells this time.”

“Jail?” Lando asked, raising an eyebrow. “What were you doing in jail?”

“Being held for ransom,” Din replied, “Give the dagger to whoever could use it best.” Then he strode out of the room.

Luke followed behind him, jogging to keep up. “Well, wait!” he said. “Are you okay with that? I said it wrong. I’m _asking_ you to come with us.”

Din turned to look at him, exhaling sharply. “When you say one final movement, what does that mean?”

“It means we’re overthrowing the king,” Luke replied, looking a bit defiant. Din knew there was no talking him out of this one.

“And, what?” Din exclaimed, “You expect me to help you overthrow him? You don’t think I’ll betray you? To warn him that you’re coming?”

“Well, no,” Luke said. “I trust you. All of us do.”

They were incredibly close now, so close that Din could feel the heat of Luke’s breath. He took a step back. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Din said, emotion quivering at the edge of his voice.

“You let two people go. You committed treason twice. You punched a guard to save Grogu.” Luke’s voice was heated, emotion flowing through it. “So, yes, I trust you. I don’t think you’ll betray us.”

“I barely trust myself,” Din said, suddenly wanting that sword away from him. He removed the sheathed blade from his side and placed it in Luke’s hands.

“Here,” he said. “I don’t want it. Give it to someone who could use it.”

“Din,” Luke said, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “Did you forget everything I said about trusting yourself?”

“It’s not the same,” Din replied. “You and I sparring with wooden swords and learning to trust my movements—it’s not the same as risking the mission because I don’t know who I’m loyal to anymore.”

“Don’t you?” Luke asked. “Any time that we were gone, you could have left. You could have contacted the guards and told them we were here. Han was scared you’d do that at first.”

Din stared at him blankly. He’d never even considered that. His mind had been elsewhere.

“I can’t tell you who you’re loyal to,” Luke said, “But if I had to take a guess, I’d say it wasn’t to the king. Not while you melt down his armor into weapons. Not while you help us raise Grogu, and stayed when you easily could have left.”

He pressed the sword back into Din’s hands, gazing into his eyes. “If you were really going to betray us, I don’t think you’d be so worried about it,” he said softly. 

Din clipped the sword back onto his belt, and Luke gripped his hands. “ _I’m_ not worried,” Luke said. “I’m not worried at all. I know you.”

He was close again, smelling of coffee and the ocean. His lips were parted, his breathing softly registering to Din’s ears. Din wanted to— 

Pulling away, he gave Luke a nod, and Luke took a step back, not meeting Din’s gaze. “Tomorrow,” he said helplessly. “I’ll wake you up for it.”

Din nodded, and Luke seemed to be satisfied enough with that to leave. Din watched him walk away.


End file.
